Then head back to Leningrad. At midnight pull off the highway just before the Baltic line train bridge outside of town. There’s a dirt road. Go down it a bit and turn off your lights. It’s well-protected—lots of trees—and sit there. You’ll hear them unloading. Wait fifteen minutes before leaving. Oi, and remember one thing. Don’t ever get out. Don’t ever try and find out who’s back there. You see their faces and…”
Sergei had made a sound like a rusty zipper and sliced a finger across his neck.
Finally, there it was. The unlit bridge came into view, and Boris put the truck in neutral and edged over. The wheels dropped off the pavement and onto the gravel. He sighed, lifted his foot from the accelerator, yet hesitated before settling on the brake. He slowed, steered to the right, and nosed the truck down the muddy lane. He winced when he hit a deep hole, heard the cargo fly up and crash down. Oi, the radios. He’d forgotten about them.
Boris pulled to a stop beneath a large oak tree, and the drops of rain fell larger and noisier than ever on the hood and windshield. The sound was like water torture, and he wanted to jam the truck in reverse and escape as quickly as he could. But he knew he couldn’t. The gang would come after him and kill him for stealing their stolen goods. There was also no way he could go to the militsiya. Arriving there with a truckload of hot auto parts would be suicide.
So he shut off the engine and the countryside quiet nearly devoured him. On his left was a large berm of earth, on top of which sat the tracks of the Baltic railway. Right up there, only a few meters away, were slender strips of iron that curved around and led all the way back to Leningrad. He wanted to follow the tracks, to be away from all this—to be back in the city. Shivering, he thought of slipping into her bed and of how her skin would burn against his, steaming away the cold, wet night….
He shook. Pushing back his sleeve, he squinted and tried to read the dials of his watch. Faintly, he could make out the luminous hands. 11:50.
“Tfoo.”
The black night held him in its grip. Ten minutes before his unknown colleagues arrive, and then another fifteen. He groaned. He was going to have to sit here in the black for a whole twenty-five minutes. He couldn’t make it, couldn’t hold it. Wasn’t there a can or a cup or something—anything—he could pee into?
There wasn’t. He just had to exercise self-control. He had to get this rendezvous over with. Then he could shoot back on the highway, piss all over the pavement, and race back to Leningrad. You durak—you idiot—he told himself. Why did you ever become involved in the first place? You’re just going to have to finish this stupid business. It will be the first and last time. Just think of her, think of her warm embrace and that hot body to melt into.
He clenched his hand over his crotch. What if something went wrong and the militsiya showed up instead of the gang? They’d haul him and the stupid radios and auto parts off. Siberia would be his home for ever and ever. Or perhaps he’d only make it as far as a firing squad.
His hands felt his abdomen swell. What was this, a kid’s game or something? Why did he feel so dumb? This was just like being a child again: hiding and knowing you were going to make a noise so that they’d find you and you could come out of hiding and go to the bathroom. Well, whatever, but he knew he could never endure a twenty-five minute wait. Checking his watch, he saw in the faint glow that it was five till midnight.
Not giving it another thought, Boris burst his large body out of the cab. He had to urinate worse than ever now, and he dashed around the front of the truck, through a puddle, and across the early fall leaves. To the sound of the pouring rain, he ripped open the buttons of his pants, stood beneath the edge of the bridge, and aimed into the night.
Nothing happened. He’d sucked in his muscles and the liquid so much that he couldn’t reverse the flow. He pushed, only to be met by a sharp hot pain. He pushed again, and the burning urine trickled, then flowed in a strong, steamy stream out of him.
There was so much, as if he hadn’t done anything all night except drink kvass, the ale-like drink made from fermented bread. The liquid pouring out of him seemed endless. Yet he had to hurry. He couldn’t take all night. His blue eyes shot over his shoulder. The wet bushes and trees were lighting up, glowing with headlights. They were coming.
They’d be here in seconds and he couldn’t stop pissing.
With the whole area lighting up, he broke off the stream, shook himself, and fumbled with the buttons as he ran for the truck. They were coming too fast. It was turning to day all around. The protective darkness was fading away. Bozhe, he prayed, if I make it out of this I’ll never do anything illegal again. He slid on some leaves, then glanced toward the road. He wasn’t going to make it.
A hand grabbed him.
“Ai!”
“Get down!” ordered a deep voice. “Don’t move!”
“But…but…”
The approaching lights came in all around. Alongside Boris stood a shorter man wearing a dark leather jacket over a wrestler’s body. Boris glanced down and saw thick dark hair, a mustache, and a silvery blade.
“You idiot, you weren’t supposed to get out of the truck!”
The man grabbed Boris and yanked him down behind the front fender. Seconds later a truck whooshed through the rain and beneath the bridge. In the last flash of light Boris turned and saw a handful of men huddled at the rear of the truck. The darkness snapped back just as quickly, and the men disappeared in the black of the night.
“I…I didn’t hear you come,” said Boris. “I had to go to the bathroom. I didn’t know you were—”
The shadowy figure rose. “Get up.”
He braced himself on the truck’s wheel and pushed himself up. “Really, I—”
A sharp object pressed against his navel. He lowered his eyes and saw the outline of the knife.
The words spilled out of him. “I… I didn’t see anything. You don’t have to worry.”
“Shut up and get in.”
Boris’ hand shot back and grabbed for the door handle. He ripped the door open, jumped up into the passenger’s seat, and slammed down the lock. Breathing as if he’d just run ten kilometers, he hit the lock on the other side, then settled behind the wheel.
“Bozhe moi.” My god, he sighed, running his hands through his wet, curly hair.
The truck bounced and swayed as the men heaved the small crates out of the back. Boris heard steps and mumbled voices, followed by a crash and an outcry. Oi, wonderful, thought Boris. They probably tipped over the whole stack of short-waves. He’d really be in trouble if anything was broken. He only hoped the gang didn’t help themselves to the radios. Boris had to account for all of them.
Suddenly the truck’s bed stopped rocking back and forth. He heard leaves rustling, then nothing, and he sat still. Finally, he jerked to the left and looked out the window at the side mirror. Nothing but black back there. No movement. No noises. Were they going to let him go? Well, he wasn’t going to wait for them to tell him.
Boris lunged for the ignition, brought the engine to a roaring charge, and jammed the truck in gear. Spitting wet leaves and muddy rocks, the vehicle jerked backward. The rear of the truck shot across the road, blocking the entire highway. Boris tore the gear out of reverse and crammed it into first so fast that the transmission bucked and clanked, making as much noise as a rack of dropped frying pans. He pressed the accelerator flat to the floor, and the truck sputtered, roared, and lunged toward Leningrad. Boris hit the headlights but couldn’t see the road. He swerved to the right, felt the truck tipping into a ditch. He yanked the wheel to the left and the vehicle steadied. But still he couldn’t see.
“Gospodi!” Dear lord!
He hit the windshield wipers and the wet road emerged before him. As he shifted to higher and higher gears and the bridge fell behind him, Boris began to relax. Thank god. He’d delivered as he said he would. He’d escaped alive and free, and without a doubt he never wanted to see a stolen auto part again.
Just get me ba
ck to Leningrad, he thought. I want to be there now. I just want her to hold me in her arms….
Chapter 2
The mustached man in the leather jacket stepped silently from the trees where the van was hidden. He watched and listened as the GAZ truck, driven by the one with the curly hair, tipped off the edge of the road, pulled back, and flashed on its lights. Then, as if he were escaping with his life, the driver charged back to Leningrad at a speed that was sure to attract attention.
He stood there, the rain pelting his jacket, his eyes focused on the red taillights that were dissolving into dots. This was no good. People like him were of no use in a business that depended on a market that was all black.
Behind him, a tall figure with a thick chest emerged from the woods.
“We’re all loaded,” announced the man to his superior.
The leather-jacketed one motioned down the highway. “Look at that.”
He saw the swerving lights and laughed. “Scared him, did we?”
“To hell and back.” The man stroked his dark mustache. “We can’t have people like him around. Too dangerous. Find out who he is, where he lives. Find out right away, this morning. Clear?”
“Da, da.”
“Good. I’ll take care of him after that.”
Disgusted by the situation, the man in the leather jacket headed back into the woods toward the hidden van. The man with the curly hair and loose mouth was no good. People like him led execution squads right to one’s doorstep, brought death to profitable situations.
There was no doubt about it. The driver of the GAZ truck would have to be dealt with. The sooner the better.
Chapter 3
Leningrad
When he entered Leningrad that morning, Boris viewed his native city with renewed appreciation. After the endless kilometers of flat, soggy fields that stretched out on either side of the highway, he felt a surge of pride at the sight of the honeycombed highrises that blossomed on the city’s periphery. Just beyond the cabbage patches and hectares of hothouses, the tall, white buildings glistened even though dawn was hours away. The rain had stopped, the night sky cleared, and everything sparkled with cleanliness. He felt so safe, so tranquil here. He was glad to be going home, glad to be away from those thugs and their stolen merchandise.
Boris circled a towering monument to the victory of the Great Fatherland War. The Fascists had come this far, just a streetcar ride from the center, and nearly choked the city to death. At the expense of over a million lives, though, the hero city had held on for 900 days, never surrendering. It seemed hard to imagine that this area, now filled with so much new construction, had been a wasteland of war and death.
As he drove down Moskovsky Prospekt, the buildings grew shorter and older the nearer he came to the city’s center. Leontev’s hit song, “There in September,” trickled over his lips and filled the truck’s cab. He sang as he made his deliveries at Gostini Dvor, the city’s largest department store just a few blocks down Nevsky from his apartment. He continued on his way, making his usual round of stops, rather glad that he worked while everyone else slept. The city—Peter the Great’s city, Lenin’s city—belonged only to him and the streetcleaners.
Toward six o’clock he drove his empty truck to the lot on the north side of town. He tapped the steering wheel and sang a tune that he had heard Elton John sing at that packed concert back in 1977. Obtaining a ticket had been another benefit of being the son of a Party boss.
Well, he thought as he neared the lot, thank God all that business with the stolen auto parts was over. Never, never again. He’d call Sergei this morning and tell him to count him out in the future. For a fleeting moment he again thought how disastrous the incident could have been. Suppose the militsiya had come? Suppose he had been caught with all of those stolen parts? And what if the gang had decided to kill him? He had to face it—he was lucky he got away from them. After all, he’d had a fairly good look at the stocky, dark-haired man in the leather jacket.
No, thought Boris as he parked his truck in the fenced lot, he didn’t need that gang or their rubles. He had as much as anyone should want. It was true, most of what he had he’d inherited from his father—an enormous apartment filled with antiques right on Nevsky Prospekt, a color TV, stereo, a dacha, and a two-door Moskvich—but really he didn’t need any of that either. He just needed her. She was the only one who’d ever understood him. Everything seemed at peace when they were together.
Boris bid good night to his dispatcher, then made his way to Kirovsky Prospekt. He boarded a nearly empty tram and let the electric motors whirl away and carry him back toward the center of Leningrad. The dense apartment buildings lining the street finally gave way to the yellowing fall leaves of a park. The river lay just ahead. Realizing he was near Revolution Square, Boris rose and climbed out at the last stop before the Neva. He needed to walk, digest what had taken place that night before returning home. The moist air off the river embraced him like an eager lover, and he walked right over the water onto the Kirovsky Bridge.
How he loved Leningrad! Walking along its granite embankments, running his hand along its kilometers of patterned iron railings, was like a stroll along the beach or a hike in the forest. He could lose himself here in time and history, amid the turrets and stone sphinxes and parapets. Beauty overwhelmed him, always soothed his soul. Peter the Great had started it all, forcibly moving the capital from Moscow to what was then a mass of marshy islands cut into hundreds of pieces by a muddy river and its splintering tributaries. Only a tsar—an autocrat that decreed tariffs in terms of rocks needed to build his dream—could defy nature and build this northern port.
Boris paused beneath one of the ornate lamps on the bridge and gazed off to his left. Against the first of the morning’s light, the gold cupolas of the Smolny Institute stood outlined like great upside-down onions. He turned to the right, and the river’s vast expanse filled his vision. On one embankment rose the golden spires of the Peter and Paul Fortress where Peter the Great and Catherine the Great were buried. On the opposite side, the colonnaded Winter Palace glided on block after endless block. And in the far distance, the massive golden dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral was coming to life with light. He sighed, staring out again at the broad Neva River that spread out before him like a black prairie swirling devilishly in the wind. Hadn’t he stood right at this very point and fished with his father?
Boris wished he’d understood his father, Arkady Yakovich, as well as he understood and loved this city. Neither father nor son, however, had been so planned by a single tsar, and hence neither one of them read like a clear map of straight boulevards and striking monuments. Ever since the start, they kept wandering, hoping to find each other in a jumble of confusing streets and houses. Sometimes they came close, hearing the other just around the corner or catching a faint glimpse across the broad river. But they never met up. Boris had always assumed it was he alone who had failed. He had always sensed that Arkady Yakovich had been waiting for him the entire time, his disappointment and dissatisfaction growing each year because Boris would not follow the same path.
His forehead a mass of wrinkled regrets, Boris stumbled on. How he wished he could have his father back just for a minute. There was so much to say, to explain, to beg. How awful this was, this burden of being left with a stomach churning in anger and a mind packed with hopes unfulfilled. What was he to do with it all? When they could have talked, they didn’t. Now his father was dead, the silence as permanent as the granite Soviet star above his grave.
The Marble Palace, the open Field of Mars, the Summer Garden. Boris clicked past all of them. Soon he found himself walking along the Fontanka. He paused, bent over the iron railing, and peered into the slow waters. By the light of a street lamp, he saw his curly hair and hopeful face floating on the surface. He still looked boyish; it was the blue eyes, he’d been told, that never stopped moving. There was no doubt, though. He was getting older. Those tense wrinkles were turning into permanent grooves. Su
ch was life. Shto delat? What could be done?
Life and death were both beyond his control.
Chapter 4
The stout, square body of the man in the leather jacket stood hidden in the shadows of an armoire—shadows that were as dark as his hair. He’d been there two hours already, having slipped unnoticed into the building long before the sun would greet the day. He’d had no trouble entering the flat, finding it empty as he’d expected. Now it was just a matter of waiting for him to return. And even though these last moments seemed to drag by, the intruder would wait another twelve hours if he had to. After so many years of waiting to establish himself in Leningrad, he wasn’t about to let one man ruin his chances. Cleaver in hand, he ignored the dull cramps in his arms and legs. He’d leaned against the wall behind the door only once or twice. Otherwise, he was as still as a Yakut stalking a sable. The room was flooded by moonlight the color of the man’s pale skin. Before the Revolution this had been a mere corner of a nobleman’s expansive, fashionably located apartment. Nevsky Prospekt—the Champs Élysées of Imperial Russia and still the city’s most famous avenue—crossed the Fontanka Canal just a few floors below. The former palaces of princes and grand dukes lined Nevsky and the Fontanka in every direction. Even the bridge across the canal—the Anichkov Bridge with a rearing, bronze horse at each of its four corners—was among the most celebrated of the hundreds that crossed the city’s sixty rivers and canals.
Still this remained one of the best addresses in the country, even sixty-five years after the Great October Revolution. The city—St. Petersburg-Petrograd-Leningrad—had passed through revolution, civil war, and international wars, but its people always valued its heart. Great ideas as well as merchandise and farsovchiki—black marketeers—always flowed along Nevsky, and the closer to it one lived the better.
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