Red Ink

by Greg Dinallo

  She smiles weakly, then looks off with a thought. “Then why are they still saying otherwise? First they called him a black-mailer. Now, he’s the mastermind.”

  “It’s all part of the cover-up. He was neither, Mrs. Churkin, believe me. Your father was an honest man—honest to a fault.”

  “Will you write that?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Thank you, Nikolai,” she says, beaming. “Thank you for everything.” She leaves the chair and fetches her jacket from a closet near the door. It makes a metallic tinkling sound as she slips it on. My eyes dart to a cascade of brightly colored ribbons and shimmering medals arranged in neat rows on the black wool. She notices me staring. “There’s a demonstration in Red Square this morning,” she explains. “I’m taking the children. Thank you again. This is going to be the most wonderful May Day.”

  My gut tightens. My face falls. I can’t hide my reaction. May Day was always the symbol of everything I despised; the endless parade of tanks, missiles, and troops. Mile after mile of them marching like robots, marching in the same goose step as the hated Nazis. The bizarre military affectation always baffled me. As did the huge portraits—Marx, a Jew: Engels, a German; and Lenin, a Western-educated lawyer—that hung above the latter’s tomb, where members of the Politburo stood in precise pecking order, their beaming faces failing to conceal the flinty malevolence in their eyes.

  “You disapprove, don’t you?” Mrs. Churkin prompts.

  “I disapprove of anything that glorifies tyrants and dictators.”

  “My father was neither. He was a war hero, a patriot, and a great man.”

  “A Communist.”

  “True. It’s part of my children’s heritage. You’re not suggesting I lie about it, are you?”

  “On the contrary. I think it’s important they know the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “Seventy-five years of totalitarian rule, of repression, terror, the denial of human rights.”

  “It wasn’t the Communists who took away my father’s human rights, was it?” she declares pointedly.

  I stiffen, stung by the penetrating accuracy of her remark. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “Yes, I asked him about your father. That’s why I’m so positive of his innocence.”

  Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why aren’t you telling me his name? Aren’t you going to reveal it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I thought you wanted to restore your father’s reputation?”

  “Yes, I’d also like to see the man responsible for his death punished.”

  “The man who killed him is dead, Mrs. Churkin.”

  “I said the man responsible.”

  “What if I told you it might hurt Russia?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Democracy. Our commitment to a free society. What you’re asking me to do could have consequences that—”

  “This has nothing to do with that, as far as I’m concerned,” she interrupts indignantly. “My father was killed in cold blood, Nikolai. I want justice. I have a right to it. So does he.”

  “To use the common analogy, justice is best served by weighing opposing views, and I assure you, that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Yes, and eventually one side of the scale goes up and the other goes down.”

  “I’m afraid you’re forgetting that there’s always a slim chance they’ll balance.”

  She stares at me for a long moment, then nods resignedly and crosses to a doorway. “Children? Children, we don’t want to be late.”

  They come running excitedly from their rooms. Their faces are brighter than I recall. Their posture straighter. Both are impeccably dressed. The boy struts proudly in his white shirt, tie, and blazer adorned with several of his grandfather’s medals. His sister, immaculate in a flowery spring dress and prim white gloves, holds a stick to which a small Soviet flag is affixed. The Hammer and Sickle against the bright red field still raises my hackles and sends shivers of terror up my spine.

  We leave the apartment and take the elevator to the lobby in silence. “I used to live here,” I say, as we exit and cross toward the big wooden door. “Did I ever mention that?”

  Mrs. Churkin brightens, pleasantly surprised. I sense that this revelation, more than retrieving the medals, or determining her father’s innocence, somehow validates me. “Your family? Here?”

  “Uh-huh,” I reply, opening the door for them. “Until my father was arrested by the KGB.”

  The children dash through it enthusiastically. Mrs. Churkin hesitates. “Why?”

  “He didn’t think Soviet tanks belonged in Prague.”

  “Neither did mine, as I recall.”

  “Yes, well, mine made the mistake of saying it.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died in a labor camp. Many years ago. He was a good man. Educated. Compassionate. He had every bit as much integrity and love for his country as yours.”

  She smiles sympathetically and hurries down the steps, then pauses and turns back to face me. “I’m counting on you, Nikolai.”

  I force a smile as she goes after the children, then return to the Zhiguli. It seems to be giving off a faint electronic twitter when I open the door. The sound is coming from the backseat. I pull my briefcase from beneath the suitcases and throw back the flap. The sound gets louder. It’s my beeper. It’s been in there since I left Moscow. I’d forgotten all about it. I jog across the grounds to a phone kiosk, thumb two kopeks into the slot, and dial Militia Headquarters.

  “Dispatcher seventeen.”

  “Vera? Vera, it’s Nikolai. You beep me?”

  “Of course. Who else? Several times in the last few weeks, I might add.”

  “I was away for a while. What’s going on?”

  “You’re in trouble with the militia.”

  “Gudonov?”

  “No, Shevchenko. He put out an alert for a rented Zhiguli and identified you as the driver.”

  “Oh,” I sigh, relieved. “That’s okay. We’re still working on that story. It’s been a long night. He’s probably wondering what happened.”

  “I don’t know about that. The alert carries a warning that you’re armed.”

  “Great. Listen, Vera, I’m at the Embankment. Can you meet me?”

  “No, I’m working.”

  “Get someone to cover for you. I’m in a quandary over this. I need to talk.”

  “I can’t. What about Yuri? Call him.”

  “It’s about Yuri. Please, it’s important. You’ve no idea how important.”

  “All right, Niko. I’m on my way.”

  My stomach flutters at the thought of seeing her. I settle on one of the benches, wondering if she meant it, if she’s really going to come. Fifteen minutes. A half hour. I’m lighting one cigarette from the next and on the verge of giving up hope when I spot Vera’s lithe figure weaving through the crowd.

  She apologizes for taking so long, explaining that the May Day demonstration has snarled traffic and the taxi couldn’t get through. She’s predictably intrigued and impressed by my tale of adventure, and as shocked and confused by my dilemma as I am. “I can’t tell you what to do, Nikolai,” she replies with a comely shrug. “I’ve no idea how to handle it. Besides, you never listened to me before. Why would you start now?”

  “I’m desperate,” I reply with a little smile. “And anyone who could come up with those documents is well worth listening to. I’m sorry. I never thanked you. None of this could’ve happened without them.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  “That makes two of us. Want to tell me how you did it?”

  “I didn’t. I have a friend in the mail room who owed me a favor. She intercepted the envelope before it got out of the building.” Vera splays her hands and grins. “You still want advice from me?”

  “You have some?”

 
“Uh-huh.”

  “What? Join a monastery?”

  She chuckles and throws her hair back over her shoulder. “No. Just be yourself. It’s always served you well.”

  “I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.”

  “You don’t seem different.”

  “I’m not. Everything else is. It all used to be so clear. So simple. The assholes in the Kremlin were the bad guys. We were the good guys. It’s all muddled now.”

  “Trust your instincts. Do what feels right. You’ll be okay, Nikolai. I know you will.” She smiles, then glances to her watch. “I have to go.” She turns to leave, then pauses and lunges into my arms. Her eyes are brimming with emotion. “I missed you. Will you call me?”

  “If you really want me to.”

  “Of course I do.” She kisses my cheek, steps back, then turns and hurries off.

  I watch until she disappears in the crowd, then walk along the river lost in my thoughts. A half hour later, I find myself back at the Zhiguli. As I’m opening the door, I hear the shuffle of feet and I whirl to see four men running toward me brandishing guns.

  “Police!” one of them shouts. “Turn around and put your hands on the car!”

  “I’m not armed,” I call out, complying with the order. “The gun’s in the glove box.”

  One of the officers fetches it. They frisk me anyway, confiscating my wallet and car keys, then spin me around to face them. “Nikolai Katkov?”

  I nod wearily.

  “Investigator Shevchenko wants to see you. You’ll have to come with us.”

  Two of them hustle me into a patrol car. As we drive off, another gets behind the wheel of the Zhiguli and follows. The driver avoids the demonstration-clogged streets, and makes quick work of the drive to Militia Headquarters. In less than fifteen minutes, we’re hurrying down the corridor to Shevchenko’s office.

  “Katkov. Katkov, you okay?” Scotto asks anxiously as we enter.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Good, because I’m gonna kill you, dammit. Now, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Going on?” I’m stalling, vacillating like a flickering light bulb. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Katkov!” Shevchenko growls, jumping out of his chair and circling the desk to confront me. “Twelve hours to check out a hunch?!”

  “Some take longer than others.”

  “Am I to assume that means you’ve completed your investigation into the container’s whereabouts?” he asks sardonically.

  I nod, buying every last second before deciding.

  “And?” he groans, exasperated.

  Silence. I could hear a pin drop. A long moment passes before I shrug and hear myself say, “I was wrong.”

  45

  Drop you somewhere?” Scotto asks curtly as we leave Militia Headquarters and walk across the courtyard toward the Zhiguli.

  “Thanks. That’s okay. I’ll take my things out of the car and catch a taxi.”

  “You sure? Plenty of time before my flight.”

  She’s fuming, seething in silence. I’ve no doubt her gesture is genuine; it’s the motive that’s a little vague. I have a feeling something’s on her mind, and she needs a little time to get around to it. “Okay. I’m going to Yuri’s place, I guess. It’s not far.”

  We drive in silence for a few blocks. She’s still distant. We’re stopped at a traffic light when she finally glances over. “You found it, didn’t you, Katkov?”

  “You sound like you already know the answer.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says with a sassy nod.

  “Then there’s no need for a reply, is there?”

  “You protecting someone?”

  “Really, Scotto. You know I’d never do that.”

  “Then why, dammit? Why?”

  “Because it’s not what I thought. It’s—it’s more complicated. It’s not black and white.”

  “Thanks for clarifying it,” she says facetiously. “Look, I’m a fairly bright person. Why don’t you run it past me? Who knows, I might understand.”

  “I’ve a better idea. Make a left at the corner.”

  She turns into Tverskoy and drives south to the Moskva Hotel. We leave the car in the parking area and walk to Red Square. A barbarous roar echoes off the towering walls of brick. The diehard Communists are out in full force. Hundreds of thousands of them. In their midst, a group of furiously intense men with bullhorns stand Lenin-style, in the bed of a truck, inciting the burgeoning throng. Old soldiers exhibiting grand mustaches, rotund women flashing gold-toothed smiles, children clutching tiny red flags—their proud chests shimmering with medals—are chanting, “Le-nin! Le-nin! Le-nin!” A sea of Soviet regalia, flags, banners, and posters surges through the Square. The Hammer and Sickle. The glowering images of Lenin and Stalin. A mass of humanity eagerly protesting the fall of tyranny and the advent of freedom. It’s a staggering sight.

  “It’ll be a long time before Russia is anything like the United States, Scotto.”

  “Hey, whether you agree with these clowns or not, it’s a step in the right direction. Dissent is the cornerstone of a free society.”

  “Thanks for clarifying it,” I say pointedly.

  She reddens slightly and apologizes with a smile.

  “My point is, no matter how violently you people disagree, it’s always over how to make it work better. There aren’t hordes of Americans in the streets protesting democracy.”

  “Not lately anyway, but the right to do it, to advocate an idea that you or I might totally despise, has to be preserved at all costs.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Bet your ass. But if you want to be a democracy, Katkov, you have to act like one. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “We can’t have it overnight either. The framework is barely in place. It’s unsteady and very fragile. The slightest push could bring the whole thing down.”

  “And these clowns are pushing.”

  “Right. I don’t want to stop them; I want to buy enough time to reinforce the foundation.”

  “One-point-eight-billion dollars’ worth?”

  “I think you’re starting to understand. At the moment, there are more important things in Russia than the letter of the law.”

  “More important than the truth?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But you know what it is.”

  “Uh-huh. Just not sure what to do with it.”

  Scotto brightens with a thought. “Come on, I have something that might help you decide.” She leads the way back to the parking area next to the hotel and opens the Zhiguli’s trunk. “Here,” she says, presenting me with my typewriter.

  I stare at it in stunned silence for a moment, struck by the realization that I’d—quite conveniently—forgotten all about it. “I assure you, you’ve made your point.”

  “Just keeping a promise,” she says, pulling the typewriter back with a giggle when I reach for it. “Trade you for the camera.”

  “The camera?”

  “You know Joe,” she replies a little too casually. “With this damn budget crunch, I’m gonna have to account for it one way or the other.”

  I lean into the backseat of the Zhiguli and get the camera from my briefcase. “Come on, we better go,” Scotto says, pocketing it. She’s reaching for the door handle when she notices I’m removing my luggage from the backseat. “What’re you doing?”

  “Changing my mind. Something tells me I’ve worn out my welcome at Yuri’s, and I’m not terribly keen on leaving my things in storage. I think I’ll take a room here for a few days, then find a place of my own.”

  She studies me for a moment. “I’ve no doubt you’ll know it when you find it,” she says, poignantly.

  “I just want to do the right thing, Scotto.”

  “Make sure you try real hard.”

  “You know, a fairly bright person once told me she didn’t like journalists because they think that as long as they tell the truth, they’re not resp
onsible for the consequences.”

  Scotto smiles at the irony and opens the Zhiguli’s door. “Hey, who knows? Maybe they’ll give you a medal?” She kisses my cheek, slides behind the wheel, and drives off with a tap of her horn.

  The car winds down the hill past the Kremlin, past crenellated turrets and stands of towering pines that send long shadows across the expanse of centuries-old cobblestones. I watch until it’s out of sight, then climb the steps to the hotel, wondering about Scotto, wondering if she really has to account for the camera, or if, budget crunch or no, the swap was a shrewdly veiled ploy to acquire its contents? I leave my bags with one of the Moskva’s bellmen, and go for a walk. It’s only a few blocks to the river. The early thaw has shattered the monolithic sheet of ice, and the current is sweeping the pieces away with unusual swiftness. I’ve no doubts now. No second thoughts. A flick of my wrist propels the canister of film into the air. It sails in a graceful arc, lands with a little splash, and vanishes beneath the raging torrent. On the opposite shore, the House on the Embankment cuts a jagged silhouette out of swiftly falling darkness.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For technical information and inspiration, I am especially indebted to Shelley G. Altenstadter, Deputy Director of Financial Crimes Enforcement Network; and also to: Brian M. Bruh, Director of FinCEN, for generously allowing me access to his headquarters and personnel; Timothy J. Kruthaupt, Chief Operations Support Division, for his responsiveness and guidance; and Anna Fotias, Congressional and Public Affairs Officer, who from the start made sure I got to the right people and who kept the information flowing.

  I’d also like to thank Beth Knobel of the Los Angeles Times, Moscow Bureau; Norman Katkov, friend and fellow wordsmith; and special thanks to my editor at Pocket Books, Doug Grad, for his enthusiasm and support, for making all the incisive comments expected of those paid to wield a critical eye, and for doing so with much appreciated tact, restraint, and good humor.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.