by Greg Dinallo
“Don’t be too hard on him. It was easy to miss.”
“He doesn’t get paid to miss,” Shevchenko snaps. “What do you think it means?”
“That Vorontsov wasn’t anywhere near his lodge hall the night he was killed. He was—”
“He wasn’t,” Shevchenko interrupts smugly. “As a matter of fact, several of his cronies told us he hadn’t been there in months.”
“No kidding? I can’t imagine why, but all of a sudden I have a funny feeling he’d been going to the Paradise Club instead.”
Shevchenko scowls and picks up the lighter. “So? It’s a known hangout for free-market fanatics. All the apparatchiks go there to make deals and be wined and dined by Western businessmen.”
“It’s run by the mafiya.”
“So is every other club in Moscow. I don’t see that this changes anything.”
“Vorontsov lied to his daughter about where he was going. Why?”
“Because he didn’t want her to know he liked to drink expensive champagne and watch naked women dance. He might’ve been fucking one of them for all we know.”
“I don’t think he’d want her to know he was brokering a pipeline deal that was being put together with laundered money, either.”
Shevchenko leans back and studies me out of the corner of his eye. “A little tidbit from one of your infamous sources, no doubt.”
“A huge tidbit, and you know it,” I reply, sensing what’s coming next.
“Yes, Agent Scotto is a very impressive woman,” he says with a little smirk. “She dropped by yesterday afternoon. She told me about the pipeline scam. She also mentioned her people picked your article off the wire service.”
“And what did you tell her?”
He thumbs the cap from his flask and slowly pours some vodka into his tea. “Why do you think I had anything to tell her?”
“You said you were working on something, remember?”
“I also said it was probably nothing.”
“Come on, she wouldn’t have come to see you if it weren’t for me.”
“True,” he muses, grudgingly. “It’s still probably nothing; but one of the medal dealers we busted put us onto a shoe factory in Zuzino, a very productive one that’s being privatized.” He pauses, then sarcastically adds, “As a free-market advocate, I’m sure you know how these deals work.”
“Of course, and I’ll be happy to explain it to you,” I retort, matching his tone. “The employees have first crack at buying the business. If they vote no, the government can sell it to outsiders. Got it? Good. Where does the medal dealer fit in?”
“His sister was the factory’s bookkeeper. She was sleeping with the manager; that is, until she found out he was married and was screwing her so she’d doctor the books for him, and he could screw the workers.”
“The factory would look like a loser; the workers would vote no; and the outsiders who paid off the manager would buy it.”
“Precisely.”
“But Vorontsov got wind of it, threatened to blow the whistle, and the manager killed him.”
“No,” he says, with a pregnant pause. “No, your friend Rafik did that.”
My jaw slackens. “Run that past me again, will you? Rafik killed Vorontsov?”
Shevchenko nods matter-of-factly.
“How do you figure that?”
“I’ll show you.” He takes a swallow of spiked tea, then steps to a file cabinet and spins the combination lock on one of the drawers.
My mind is racing, trying to sort the pieces: The manager hired Rafik? The outsiders hired him? Whoever—they had a prominent government official killed so they could buy a shoe factory? The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. It’s not worth the risk. Not big enough. I hunch down in my parka, taking a moment to regroup. Footsteps echo in the corridor. A vaguely familiar voice joins them. My eyes drift to the open door, catching a glimpse of two men who walk by at a brisk pace, engrossed in conversation. It’s Drevnya, the brat from Pravda, and his militia connection.
I’m about to ask Shevchenko who the repulsive-looking fellow is when he slams the file drawer closed with a loud bang. “We searched Rafik’s room. We didn’t find anything to indicate who he was working for, but we did come across these.” He slides the contents of an evidence envelope onto the blotter in front of me. There, glittering beneath the desk light in all their splendor, are Vladimir Illiych Vorontsov’s medals.
I’m overwhelmed, my curiosity about Drevnya’s connection obliterated. I stare at them stupefied, still unable to accept Shevchenko’s conclusion. “You sure they’re Vorontsov’s?”
Shevchenko nods, turns one over, and pushes it toward me. “Got his name on them.”
“Look, Rafik knew I wanted them, and he knew the market, right? Maybe he managed to acquire them and was playing a game to jack up the price. He was obviously a grifter. And he—”
“A grifter?” Shevchenko interrupts with a derisive cackle. He removes a computer printout from the file folder and drops it in front of me. Neat paragraphs of data fill the space between Rafik’s picture and fingerprints. “According to our records, Rafik Obolenskiy—one of several aliases, by the way—was a trained assassin; did KGB wet work for years. Became a freelance contractor when the agency was dismantled.”
I’m stunned, barely able to speak. “But . . . but he said he was in the gulag. He . . . he . . .”
“He was. It’s on there somewhere. I believe he worked as an informer for a while.” He pauses, then unable to pass up the opportunity to needle me, adds, “I’m sure you’ll agree he was an expert at gaining confidences.”
“Must’ve written the book on it.”
“Well, it’s hard to accept being so taken in, but facts are facts. We had his pistol from the bar. Nine-millimeter Stechkina, by the way. That and the medals prompted us to fire some test rounds and compare them with the slug that killed Vorontsov.” He slips a photograph from a file on his desk and hands it to me. The two greatly enlarged slugs are side by side. One is slightly deformed. Arrows and handwritten notations point out the key areas. “As you can see, the markings are identical.”
I shake my head, feeling totally duped.
“They were keeping you close, Katkov. You had this thing for the medals. Rafik was the perfect baby-sitter.”
“They? Who are they?”
“I’ve no idea. They probably figured killing a journalist who was crying scandal could backfire, give credence to the allegations. When you wouldn’t let go, they realized they had no choice.”
“Okay, but why kill both of us? Why not have Rafik just get rid of me?”
“Because he was the link to whoever hired him. They decided to sever it. It’s an occupational hazard in his business. Who knows? Maybe they were pissed off he took the medals. Maybe they were afraid he was going to sell them to Mrs. Churkin. Maybe they didn’t count on the hitman being killed. I have a feeling he was supposed to come up with the medals, not us.”
“I can’t believe it,” I mutter as it dawns on me. “Arkady Barkhin. I played right into his hands.”
“Perhaps, but I doubt this is all his doing.” Shevchenko’s tone suggests he knows more. He takes a cigarette and methodically taps it on the desk, packing the tobacco.
“Why? Come on, dammit. Stop toying with me.”
“Well, why does your story threaten him?” he asks rhetorically.
“I mean, what’s Barkhin’s tie to it? Some meetings Vorontsov had at his club? Not enough. Besides, Barkhin has an army of thugs at his disposal"—he pauses and lights the cigarette with Vorontsov’s butane, letting smoke stream from his nostrils, then he grins smugly and resumes—"and therefore no need to import a hitman from Israel.”
“The guy in the trench coat was an Israeli?”
Shevchenko nods emphatically. “He was staying at the National under the name Goldman, but we know he used a phony passport to check in because Passport Control has nothing under that name or number.”
&n
bsp; “Then chances are the passport he used to enter the country was phony too, which means he could be from anywhere.”
“A reasonable conclusion. I entertained it myself until the coroner issued her report. As always, Olga’s incisive eyes went right to the critical detail and detected that the corpse was circumcised—recently. My sources in the Jewish community tell me the ritual was dropped here ages ago, but it’s—”
“Indeed. The day your heroes in the Kremlin outlawed religion.”
“—but it’s become somewhat mandatory for men who’ve emigrated to Israel. Sort of a barbaric, middle-age rite of passage, if you will.” His face twists with imagined pain. “No wonder you’ve chosen to remain here, rather than join them.”
“Come on, you’d be lost without me.”
Shevchenko smiles, savoring the thought.
“Let’s get back to the shooter. It’s possible he used to work for Barkhin and was brought back in to wipe the slate clean. No?”
“Anything’s possible. As soon as we get an ID on him, we’ll know if he was one of those discarded athletes you’re so fond of.”
“Regardless, the same people who hired Rafik must’ve hired him too.”
Shevchenko exhales with a sarcastic snort. “Brilliant. We’ve just narrowed the suspects to everyone who saw your story on the wire.”
“That’s right,” I say, getting a little annoyed. “Which eliminates everyone involved in the shoe factory deal. Nothing about that in my story, or in Vorontsov’s documents, as I recall.”
“See, I told you it was nothing.” He forces a smile, then shudders at the cold and crosses to the thermostat. He turns it all the way down, then all the way back up, as if trying to trick it into sending up more heat. The valve on the radiator emits a weary hiss and sputters mockingly. “Where were we?”
“Narrowing suspects. Did Agent Scotto mention the name Rubineau?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. I’d never heard of him. She had nothing to connect him to Vorontsov. I mean other than that he hangs out at the Paradise when he’s in Moscow. Have you?”
“No. You’re the investigator. Anything in those documents on him?”
He shakes his head no. “I went through them several times. I don’t recall seeing the name Rubineau, or Rubinowitz, for that matter.”
“You told that to Scotto?”
“Uh-huh. She wanted to see them anyway.”
“That makes two of us.”
“As I told her, they’ve been returned to the Interior Ministry.”
“Really? When was that?”
“A few days ago.”
“As of last night, they still hadn’t shown up.”
“I have the transmittal right here.” He rifles the file and removes a green form with numerous checked boxes and initials. “Once again, you’ve been talking to the wrong people. Another infamous source?”
“A highly reliable one. He’s betting they’ve been destroyed. So am I.”
“What if they were?”
“What if they were?” I echo incredulously. “You sound like you could care less.”
“It’s out of my hands.”
“Come on, there’s a lot more going on here than a robbery, and you know it. I came this close to having the bullet holes to prove it, and you don’t care?!”
“Sorry, Katkov. This isn’t a crime prevention unit. It’s Homicide. You have to be dead before I get involved.” He grins and snickers at his own joke. “Besides, once the story runs, there’d be little point in killing you to shut you up, would there?”
“Let’s not forget you have a little stake in this story too.”
His eyes glaze.
“Am I missing something here? What about your career? What happened to making . . .” I pause as the reason for his indifference dawns on me. “The promotion went to Gudonov, didn’t it?”
Shevchenko nods resignedly.
“Sorry,” I mutter, my compassion tempered by the memory of seeing him with Vera.
“Don’t worry, I’ll stand by our agreement,” he says, mistaking the reason for my attitude. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He lets it tail off and begins scooping the medals back into the envelope. “I have an appointment.”
“You had one the last time I was here. You two must’ve really hit it off.”
He pauses and looks up, clutching a fistful of medals. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” I reply, wishing I hadn’t said it.
“I don’t know what your problem is, Katkov. If you’ve got something to say to me, say it.”
“Vera Fedorenko.”
He looks at me blankly. “What about her?”
“The night I brought Rafik to the morgue? You both left in your car. Ring a bell?”
His face tightens in disdain. “It was a purely professional matter.”
“Sure it was.”
“You disappoint me, Katkov. Sophomoric jealousy isn’t becoming in a man of your stature. You may recall I’d taken some disciplinary action against her, and—”
“Unwarranted action. Unnecessarily harsh action.”
“That’s what Miss Fedorenko thought too. She was in my office appealing it when you dropped by with Rank’s corpse.”
“And . . . then what? You decided to take her out to make up for it?”
“No. To keep us from getting frostbite. We were both cold and decided to continue elsewhere. I’m always looking for an excuse to get out of this meat locker. And as you know, I’ve been dining alone these days, so . . .” He lets it tail off and shrugs matter of factly.
I challenge him with a stare.
“Believe what you like, Katkov,” he says, putting the last of the medals in the envelope. He glances to his watch and frowns, then shoves a clipboard at me. “Sign right there.”
“Why? What for?”
“These.” He hands me the envelope. “Rafik’s dead. We can’t prosecute his corpse. They’re useless as evidence now. I was planning to return them to Mrs. Churkin before picking up my daughters. Thanks to you, there isn’t enough time. It’s the least you can do.”
I’m caught completely off guard, and it takes a moment for his real motive to dawn on me. “It’s true. You aren’t enough of a bastard.”
“Pardon me?”
“Some people said that’s why you wouldn’t make chief. They were right.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t see the connection.”
“Well, you could always return the medals tomorrow yourself, couldn’t you?”
“Uh-huh. Guess I could.”
“So?”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you, Katkov?”
I nod, suppressing a grin.
“Okay,” he grumbles, turning away from me to fetch his hat and coat. “I thought maybe you’d like to be the one to do it.”
I search the pockets of my parka and find the lapel pin the medal dealer gave me. “Shevchenko?” I wait until he turns and toss it to him. “Thanks.”
He snatches the znachki in midair and opens his palm. His eyes widen at the image of the infant Lenin centered in the red star—the curly blond locks and cherubic face bearing no resemblance to the fierce-eyed orator. Then he smiles at a thought and says, “The way things are going for your buddy Boris, this one may soon be more valuable than those.”
18
A high-ranking government official—dead.
A former KGB assassin—dead.
A hitman brought in from Israel—dead.
A Russian journalist—almost dead.
A Moscow mafiya chieftain.
A powerful unknown collaborator.
A U.S. Treasury agent.
A set of documents that vanished.
A ritzy gambling club.
A privatization scandal.
A pipeline being built with laundered money—all pieces to the same puzzle; the kind that front-page stories are made of; the kind that will give Sergei a chance to use his witty MURDER FOR PROFIT headline a
long with an arresting photograph of the medals. Mrs. Churkin will have to wait. Instead of returning them as planned, I return to Yuri’s and begin writing. I’ve no fear of being scooped. Shevchenko isn’t talking. Excellence, not speed, is my only criteria, and I spend the next two days writing.
Though he couldn’t acquire the documents, Yuri does get something important from the Interior Ministry for me—a brand-new package of carbon paper. Saturday morning, he’s up at the crack of dawn to drive out to his mother’s farm. I’ve worked most of the night and have reached the point of diminishing returns.
“Mind if I tag along? Maybe the fresh air’ll clear my head. Besides, I haven’t seen your mother in ages.”
“I know. She always asks about you,” Yuri replies as I fetch my parka and turn toward the door. “By the way, chances are pretty good I’ll be out there the whole weekend.”
That stops me. My eyes cloud with guilt and drift back to the typewriter. “The whole weekend?”
“Uh-huh. I promised her I’d clean out the barn. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Thanks. On second thought, I’d better not.”
“Figured you’d say that.” Yuri fetches some items he bought for his mother and heads for the door.
He’s halfway through it when I make an impulsive decision. “Yuri? Yuri, hang on.” I slide the rough pages and writing materials into my briefcase, tuck Yuri’s typewriter under an arm, and hurry after him. “Do me good to get out of the city for a few days.”
We head north on the Yaroslavl Highway in Yuri’s aging Lada. It’s a two-hour-plus drive, and I spend the better part of it looking over my shoulder. He’s intent on his driving, but eventually notices.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Old habits die hard when people are trying to kill you.”
“I’d almost forgotten.”
“I’d be a fool to think that they have.”