“All of them were called White Émigrés,” said Michelle. “A misnomer implying a leisurely expat lifestyle. In reality, these people were refugees. They fled to save their families from mass murder. Penniless, they were not greeted with open arms by yesterday’s allies and sycophants. The Russians were subjected to the harshest conditions imaginable. They were forced to sign up for the kind of labor that nobody else would accept. A flood of Europe’s white slaves.”
War memorials came into view, honoring the volunteers who had fought the Bolsheviks. Michelle stopped at an unusual monument which rose like a tumulus. Sokolov trained his torch onto it. It was shaped as a circular pyramid approximately five meters in height, constructed from stone blocks and topped by a simple cross.
“It’s the Gallipoli monument,” she explained. “Built in memory of their hardship. Denied entry into Constantinople, the entire Russian Army was stranded in Gallipoli for more than a year with no shelter. The Cossacks suffered a similar plight on the Greek island of Lemnos. Hundreds perished.”
Sokolov studied the monument before Michelle continued.
“Adrian and Anna made it to Yugoslavia in 1921. Adrian toiled from sunup to sundown at Yugoslav sawmills and coal mines for a can of beans each day. They survived the treatment. Over time, the scattered Russian refugees managed to return to normal life, despite the poverty. But the war did not end for them. Europe provided no escape from the Reds. Soviet intelligence carried out terrorist attacks against Russians all across the continent. You see this tombstone?”
She turned to a marble plate with a black-and-white portrait which showed a bearded man in a full uniform of the Imperial Russian Army.
“The grave of General Kutepov. But it’s empty. A symbolic resting place. The General was kidnapped in the streets of Paris in 1930 by Soviet agents, forced into a car in broad daylight, driven off somewhere and murdered. His remains have never been found.”
Michelle led him on down the pathway. Even in the dark, aided only by Sokolov’s torch, she found her way around the cemetery with ease.
Finally, she paused at a grave which seemed only large enough to contain an urn under the granite slab covering it. Wind had swept fallen leaves around the grave.
“Here we are,” Michelle said.
“Flowers?” Sokolov noticed a bouquet of violets placed at the headstone.
“I brought them yesterday.”
Sokolov squatted to read the plaque on the grave’s wooden cross.
Anne Sokoloff. 1898-1977
Next to it was a newer inscription, not as weathered as the original.
Adrian Sokoloff. 1895-?
“You also added his name.”
“My duty is to keep his memory alive,” she said. “To him, duty was paramount. When the Nazis attacked Yugoslavia, the army, the monarchy, and the country itself ceased to exist within ten days. As the new occupation forces assumed power in Belgrade, Stalin instructed Tito to act. But resistance wasn’t the priority. Tito’s Communist Partisans received orders to finish off the defenseless Russian immigrants―including women and children. After hundreds of Russians had been killed in Serbia, General Skorodumov set up the Russian Corps, a self-defense militia. But Skorodumov’s efforts drew the attention of the Gestapo. Two days later, the Nazis arrested him. As one of his closest confidants, Adrian also awaited persecution from the Germans. So he sent Anna and their eight-year-old son off to Paris. She never heard from him again.”
Sokolov said a prayer for Anna and Adrian.
Then he and Michelle walked back past the tombstones. The minuscule orb of blue light moved through the final resting place of their countrymen without a country.
Rows upon rows. Names and dates forever etched in stone with Russian pride, honor and faith untouched by death.
With their homeland dying, they had preserved its spirit inside themselves. And after their own deaths, the Russian refugees had formed Russia’s last refuge.
8
ON THE RETURN LEG to Paris, Michelle asked, “What do you think happened?”
“It’s likely that Adrian was arrested or assassinated like the Russian Generals. The question is, by whom. The Communists or the Nazis?”
“I sent a formal letter to the FSB, querying if they had a file on Adrian Sokolov and whether he had ever been convicted by the Soviets. Descendants are entitled to access such information. Yet I received no response. Only when Nina retrieved Grigory’s records did she find my request attached to it. So she contacted me using the details I'd provided.”
“Your enquiry regarding Adrian was stored in the folder for Grigory Sokolov?”
“Yes, and it was classified. A handwritten note accompanied my letter. It prohibited anyone from acknowledging the file’s existence.”
“Do you know who gave out these instructions?”
“Nina said it was her superior.”
“Did she mention the name?”
Michelle frowned.
“She called him a nasty old man. A thief and a womanizer. He gets his crumbs from the corruption pie in Russia and launders them in Europe. Nina claimed that he even had ties with the Russian Mafia here in Paris. I couldn't quite believe it … until today. His name is Timofei Chagin … What, do you know him? You cringed as if you do.”
“No, but I know of him. He recruited Nina.”
“As soon as Nina realized that the FSB was involved, she decided to distance herself from Constantine because she knew that Chagin was still interested in him. She couldn't risk being used to influence him. She sounded very scared of Chagin.”
Sokolov shook his head in indignation. Now he knew why Nina had broken up with Constantine so quickly, leaving his brother heartbroken. She had sacrificed her own love to keep Constantine away from the FSB's grasp.
“But despite her fear she came to see you.”
“Nina did it as part of her investigation, to question me about Adrian. She didn’t know much about him so I told her everything I’ve just told you. I also showed her the St. George. Then Nina nodded as if everything fell into place and asked me to buy those violets you saw. She said that the KGB had destroyed Adrian’s own folder decades ago on special orders. Grigory’s file now makes up the entire Sokolov dossier. But she never told me about its contents.”
“She had to.”
“She was very secretive,” Michelle said. “She wanted me to meet you and Constantine first. After that, she was going to reveal everything. Maybe she was careful not to overwhelm me all at once. According to her, the interests of a very powerful group of people were at stake.”
“The Mafia?”
“I don’t know. She avoided the subject. We spent the rest of time talking about the two of you, my distant cousins. Distant, but so close and so dear to me now. In the end, there was only one thing she told me about our great-grandfathers.”
“What was that?”
“In her exact words, Adrian and Grigory met after the war in shocking circumstances. Then they died for being who they were. For being Cossacks.”
9
HIS NEXT COURSE OF action quickly took shape.
Sokolov drove through Montmartre, into the sleazy area known as Quartier Pigalle. Dazzling red neon highlighted the prop windmill on the roof of the famous Moulin Rouge cabaret.
“Gene, what are we doing here? It’s the Red Light District.”
“I know. We’re looking for a place.”
“What sort of place?” Michelle asked.
“Somewhere to stay overnight.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Our alternatives are somewhat short right now. We need a love hotel.”
“A what?”
“Such outfits are very popular in Japan. Rooms that can be quickly booked for only a few hours. Used by lovers or married couples looking for some privacy away from home, even business travelers between flights. No names, no credit cards, no questions. There should be a few of those around these parts.”
“Oh,” Miche
lle said. “I get it. Un hôtel coquin. But why not an ordinary room elsewhere?”
“Can’t risk flashing our passports at check-in.”
There was a suitable two-star hotel a few streets away. A weary, red-mustached clerk greeted them from behind the reception desk. Michelle did the talking. She explained something in hushed French. The desk clerk eyed Sokolov with an understanding look and winked. Then he retrieved a room key, smiling to Michelle. Sokolov proffered a hundred-euro note which the clerk duly pocketed, exchanging it for the key.
Sokolov and Michelle took the stairs to the second floor. The hotel sounded quiet, empty of other guests who probably frequented it during the traditional French cinq à sept. A door in the narrow corridor matched the number on the keyring. Inside the room, space was tight, taken up most by a double bed. Only one chair fit in besides a low coffee table. A bouquet of artificial red roses lay atop. At least the room seemed reasonably clean.
Sokolov alleviated the initial awkwardness by going out to the balcony. From the vantage point, he inspected the nocturnal Pigalle, a plan forming in his head. As close as they’d grown emotionally, he did not want his physical presence to embarrass Michelle. He stepped inside the room and occupied the chair, allowing Michelle to lie on the bed, propped against the pillows. He asked about her family’s Valery line and she recounted the story of her parents emigrating to the States before she’d been born. He learned about her earlier life in Queens and the move to France for work, and the personal tidbits made her dearer to him. He suggested that she should return to New York, and she agreed with his reasoning.
Gradually, she drifted off to sleep, the day’s stress and exhaustion catching up with her. Careful not to wake her, he unzipped her purse and put half of his remaining cash inside. After that, he slipped out of the room and went downstairs, back to the austere, poorly-lit lobby.
Sokolov approached the receptionist. Another fifty euros wiggled under his nose got him to understand English.
“I’m looking for a club in Pigalle.”
The clerk pursed his mustached lip. “Which one?”
“A club that has Russian girls.”
“Oh la la!” the clerk grinned, pointing at the ceiling. “I see one girl not enough for you, monsieur? Wait a moment.”
He tore a piece of paper off a notepad and jotted down an address as Sokolov placed the euro bill on the desk.
“Russe, oui? I have a feeling you’ll enjoy this. Merci, monsieur.”
Sokolov took the note from him and headed for the exit.
He decided to explore the dark corners of Pigalle on foot. This way, he could move freely and scout the area. Shady individuals often frequented chic restaurants and especially strip clubs back in Russia, and Sokolov felt certain he would find a lead there. He had to spend the night somehow, anyway.
A thief and a womanizer.
From what Michelle had told him, it didn't surprise Sokolov that an ex-KGB officer boasted connections with the underworld. After all, communist gangsters had founded the USSR to turn crime into the norm. As the Iron Curtain fell, the so-called Russian Mafia had exploded onto the global scene. In a crumbling empire which had invested all its wealth into the Cold War, the cold warriors had used their springboard to lead the mafia's rise. They had based their European operations around the Soviet West Army Group in Germany. Total corruption had devoured the military. His father had been kicked out of the Air Force after uncovering machinations ranging all the way to illegal sale of arms and military hardware. By the 1990s, the Mafia controlled up to two-thirds of the Russian economy. In the present-day Russian society, gangsters commanded respect, eventually legalizing their activities both inside the country and abroad.
From this experience, Sokolov was aware of three main pillars supporting organized crime: weapons, drugs and prostitution. A legitimate Parisian club could provide cover for all three.
Sokolov was not one to be easily disturbed but venturing deeper into the red light district, he felt a creeping sense of disdain at what he saw around him. He passed assorted sex shops and adult video stores. Strip joints and private salons succeeded one another. A porn cinema advertised its choice of 'hétéro' and 'homo' titles. A sauna and massage parlor neighbored a club libertin where couples met for swinger orgies. The vices offered by local bars and cabarets seemed innocent in comparison.
Paris: the City of Love, especially the carnal and twisted kind. Sokolov observed the lowest kinds of depravity exhibited in bright-colored neon.
A young demimondaine tugged at his sleeve, urging him inside for a peep-show but he brushed past her. On the sidewalk, a drunk milled around, choosing a transsexual prostitute. Sokolov stopped to find his bearings, unsure if he’d wandered too far down the tight alleys after veering off the main street. He still had to be able to find his way back to Michelle. Wary of pickpockets potentially lured by his wad of cash, he peered around his shoulder. Suddenly, he spotted a signboard flashing purple above a nondescript entrance.
Le Marteau.
Below it, smaller lettering advertised the establishment's specialties:
cabaret russe - lap dance - restaurant
Sokolov froze. He had hoped to find the venue but not the white Mercedes sedan parked in front of it. The very same that belonged to the assailant he'd rescued Michelle from. He approached the empty car and checked the license place, making sure that there could be no mistake.
If the velvet-clad thug was there, perhaps so were his accomplices. Chagin? Or someone else? Leaving was not an option. Neither was waiting for them to come outside as he lacked both patience and surveillance skills. He decided to act. His intuition had served him well thus far.
Sokolov entered the club. Soft yellow light filled the anteroom behind the front door. A bald, brawny bouncer in a tight-fitting tee sized him up with a hostile stare. The club’s main area was concealed behind a red curtain. Sokolov walked towards it, ignoring the bouncer, but a muscular arm blocked his path and pushed him back.
“No access. Private party,” the bouncer said in Russian.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
“Oh, really?”
“Big guy, wears a velvet suit and drives that white Mercedes. Is he around?”
“What a joker. Nobody goes around asking to meet Prince unless he wants to see you. Now get lost or you're in trouble, pal.”
Sokolov ended the conversation by smashing his fist into the bouncer's gut. As the man gasped for breath, Sokolov swung a punch across the jaw in the next split-second. The bouncer collapsed like a felled oak.
Sokolov had to keep moving before his advantage evaporated. Although he'd avoided starting a commotion in the lobby, he noticed an overhead security camera which had definitely caught him knocking the bouncer out.
He slipped behind the red drapery that divided the antechamber.
What he saw caught him completely off guard.
10
SOKOLOV CAME FACE-TO-FACE with Joseph Stalin.
Taking up the rear wall of the anteroom was a life-size mural of Stalin, portraying him in full regalia. The painting was so vivid and unexpected that Sokolov let out a breath. It may have been intended as wicked humor or genuine nostalgia, but he viewed the image only as a bad omen. Stalin's outstretched hand pointed to the single wooden door, a hammer-and-sickle symbol emblazoned on it. Sokolov stepped inside the club's private area.
Subdued light from chandeliers gave the red-colored décor of Le Marteau an intimate setting. The rest of the interior also carried a Soviet theme, adorned with old Communist posters and flags. From a marble bar in one corner, the lounge converged into a dining space and ended with a stage. A pole-dancer was moving lazily to a pop tune. Her only remaining items of clothing were fishnet stockings, a corset and a fur Red Army hat.
The club was empty save for two patrons occupying the white-clothed table nearest the stage. The younger man―short, thickset, with unruly hair―quickly dismissed the waitress taking away his plate and lea
ned back in his chair, enjoying the performance. His tall, silver-haired companion downed a snifter of vodka in one go and poured another from a half-empty Stolichnaya bottle. Sokolov recognized him as being none other than Prince.
Sokolov's heart raced as he traversed the lounge, walking past the bar.
The bartender, a skinny, mohawked Oriental, shouted at him in Russian.
“Hey, you! What the hell are you doing here? Who let you in?”
Prince stared at Sokolov in shock, mouth agape.
“Alik, look! It's him! That bastard is here!”
Distracted from the strip show, the youngster bolted from his chair as soon as he saw Sokolov.
“Seize him!” Alik barked.
Sokolov never broke his stride until he sensed someone sneaking up on him from behind. Sharply, he sidestepped, pivoting as he thrust out an elbow. The hit connected just as the bartender swung with a large wine bottle. It fell out of his hand, the wind knocked out of him. Sokolov snatched the bottle in mid-air and kicked the dazed man in the chest, which sent him crashing against the bartop.
A high-pitched squeal broke from the dancer as she fled backstage.
But Sokolov's immediate attention switched to the figures running towards him. Two more guards materialized, as burly as bodybuilders, muscles bulging from their shirts.
Sokolov hurled the bottle at the bigger one. The man deflected it with his arm and the bottle shattered at his feet. The momentary diversion proved enough for Sokolov to land a powerful side kick into his midsection. The guard staggered and Sokolov's next kick, a roundhouse to the head, toppled him.
Within striking distance, the second guard unleashed multiple blows. Sokolov blocked the punches coming at him and countered. Kicking low, he threw the man off balance. Sokolov followed through with the motion and spun, fist flying brutally. Bludgeoned across the face, his opponent overturned a table as he fell noisily, glass crashing.
Wild-eyed, the first attacker grabbed a chair and held it out, rushing forward to ram Sokolov, who kicked straight through the seat. The wooden chair broke into pieces, splinters snapping off. The momentum slammed Sokolov's foot into the bulky man's ribs. The crack of bone preceded a guttural yowl as the guard went down.
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