“I will kill you both if I have to,” Georgi warned.
“No,” said Sasha, taking another step toward him. “You will not. It would earn you nothing but death if you could even shoot straight enough to hit one of us. The other would kill you on the spot. Right?”
Elena, though she felt no confidence in Sasha’s assessment, said, “That is right.”
“And,” said Sasha, taking yet another step closer to Georgi, “if you were fortunate enough and we were unfortunate enough to discover that you could shoot straight enough to end our lives, which is extremely doubtful given your shaking hand, what would happen to you? You’d be caught by policemen very upset about your having killed two policemen.”
“I don’t care,” Georgi screamed, almost at the door.
“If you put the gun down, we talk, you tell us things, we all live happily ever after.”
“Shit,” said Georgi. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Sasha now stood less than three feet in front of him. Georgi made a fist with his free hand and bounced it gently against his mouth.
“Now put the gun on the floor,” said Sasha.
Georgi docilely handed the weapon to Sasha, who tapped the gun solidly on top of Georgi Danielovich’s head. Georgi slunk to the floor holding his head and moaning, “That hurts.”
“I told you to put the gun on the floor,” said Sasha, kneeling in front of Georgi who was holding his head with both hands. “Now, we talk.”
And, thought Elena, later you and I will have a chat about the stupid thing you just did. Sasha was smiling. Sasha looked happy. Sasha, she was certain, was more than a little bit suicidal.
Chapter Six
Just beyond a sparse forest of what looked like leafless trees, six elk darted across the snowless tundra. In the distance there was a long range of low mountains topped with snow. No sign of man had been seen from the air for more than five hundred miles.
And then, Devochka appeared, a collection of eight identical one-story concrete block buildings with slightly pitched roofs and a wide road of cracked concrete which stretched from the concrete block buildings to a far different structure, the mine. The structure was taller, older than the town and reflected the cloud-covered sun from the few unrusted spots of its steel beams.
Next to the structure was a dark strip, perhaps three hundred yards long. Karpo could not tell how deep a bite had been taken to create the strip.
“What do you see, Emil Karpo?”
“It was a strip mine and then tunnels were dug when the stripping ceased to yield diamonds.”
“They had to go deeper,” said Rostnikov, sitting back to adjust his leg before the landing.
“Yes.”
“We shall have to go deeper,” said Rostnikov. “Ferret out secrets, talk to people, drink their vodka, rub our hands together as they do, listen to their complaints.”
“I do not drink vodka,” said Karpo.
“I know. You drink no alcohol. I was speaking of us collectively. I’ll drink the vodka for both of us. Perhaps they have celery juice for you.”
“Water will be sufficient,” said Karpo, looking out the window.
Rostnikov was not a drinker unless there was a celebration or an investigation that warranted it. He was not repulsed by alcohol and, in fact, enjoyed the occasional thrust of liquid heat and euphoria, particularly from French brandy. He got a similar and far more satisfying reaction from fixing his neighbor’s maze of water pipes or from the weights in his cabinet, and with no dulling of the senses.
“They will drink and try to find our secrets,” said Rostnikov, “and in trying to find our secrets, we will discover theirs.”
“We have no secrets,” said Karpo.
“But they do not know that,” whispered Rostnikov.
“Why are you whispering?”
“To simulate conspiracy. To ready us for an inevitable duel.”
“And if they do not engage you in such a duel?”
Rostnikov looked at the unsmiling man next to him and resisted the powerful urge to put an arm around the shoulders of his dour companion.
“They are Russians, Emil Karpo. It is in their nature to protect themselves even when they are not being attacked.”
“I am Russian. I do not feel this need.”
“You are the exception. Perhaps it is your Mongol blood or a quirk of birth, but I have always found your directness refreshing. We have always made a good team, have we not?”
“Yes.”
“Prepare yourself for a surprise when we land,” said Rostnikov.
Karpo nodded. He was almost curious.
The plane’s low, sudden roar signaled descent. Rostnikov put on his seat belt and felt the slight pop in his ears. He distrusted statistics on airplane fatalities. They were always reported in terms of miles flown and not in terms of takeoffs and landings. Airplanes seldom simply fell from the sky, but they did run into significant problems when trying to leave the earth or come back to it, where they belonged.
The landing on the wide, cracked road to the mine, which doubled as Devochka’s airstrip, was reasonably smooth, and when the engines stopped the voice of the pilot wearily announced, “Voa ta na,” Here it is.
They were within forty yards of the line of concrete block buildings.
Seat belts clicked. The other passengers coughed, talked, shuffled. None of the handful who rose to get off seemed particularly happy to have arrived. It was difficult to imagine that some of them called this place home, that they and many he would meet had lived their lives here and, in all likelihood, so had their parents. Inbreeding had plagued Gulag towns for generations. Perhaps the same would be true of Devochka.
The two policemen were the last to get off. Descent down the aluminum steps was an even bigger adventure than had been the ascent. Rostnikov did not know who was watching, and there was little he could do to make the maneuver anything but slightly awkward at best. He silently urged his young and senseless leg to cooperate in the venture.
When he and Karpo had reached the ground and retrieved their bags, they saw a contingent of four men stepping across the road toward them.
“Well, is it what you expected?” Rostnikov asked Karpo.
The buildings appeared to be solid, well maintained, functional, and bleak. There were many windows, wide windows letting in the sunlight, facing not just the far less modern structure of the mine, but the forest and mountains beyond.
“I had no expectations,” said Karpo.
The quartet was almost on them now. The passengers had all deplaned, retrieved their luggage, and begun walking toward the closest of the buildings.
“It is not like our last adventure in Siberia.”
“That was two thousand kilometers from here.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, looking toward a thick gathering of trees in the distance.
Three of the four men were not impressed by the Moscow policemen but they tried not to show it. What they witnessed was a gaunt, thin, and quite dour spectre in black and a limping, average-sized, broad man with a typical Russian face.
The engines of the airplane which had gone down to an uneven, impatient murmur, were now revving up with loud rattling noises of belching anxiety.
“I’m Yevgeniy Zuyev,” said the first man, extending his hand. “I am the Chairman of the Town of Devochka. Let’s go inside where we can sit and talk and complete the introductions without the sound of the airplane.”
Rostnikov nodded his agreement and followed the man, who could not have been more than forty.
As they walked, Karpo observed Porfiry Petrovich’s eyes meeting those of a bearded member of the group who looked back over his shoulder. The meeting of eyes was without emotion. Karpo noted the exchange and thought the man looked familiar. Emil Karpo did not forget names or faces. He was sure he had not met the man before, yet the uncertainty of recognition impelled him to keep his eyes on the man as they walked. The man was perhaps fifty years old, bespectacled with a very serious
and not friendly look on his face.
“Slow down for the Inspector, Zhenya,” said the bearded man.
“No need,” said Rostnikov.
“Sorry,” said Zhenya Zuyev, slowing his pace.
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.
The third man in the group was a tall, remarkably muscular man no more than thirty years old. His head was shaved and he wore no hat. He could have been quite forbidding, but the smile he wore looked genuine. The last man, who walked head down and looked worried, was the oldest of the group. His hair, peeking out from under a fur hat, was white, his back bent, his face furrowed with thin lines like dried up riverbeds.
When they reached the closest building, Zuyev held the door open, and they stepped in behind Rostnikov and Karpo. They moved down a wide, well-lit corridor with Zuyev taking the lead.
They passed a large room to their right, with comfortable chairs facing a wide-screen television set.
“This is our primary building. Government office, security, large town meeting room, largest cafeteria. We have a large collection of DVDs,” said Zuyev. “Of course, most people prefer to watch in their own rooms and apartments.”
Zuyev led them into a cafeteria-style dining room where a few of the several dozen tables held teenagers and older people snacking and drinking tea or coffee.
“We serve three meals a day, every day,” said Zuyev. “Of course, most people prefer to eat in their own rooms and apartments.”
“You said that,” said the old man impatiently.
“Do you have a weight room?” asked Rostnikov.
The bald young man with a smile said, “An outstanding weight room, eleven machine stations and a full range of free weights.”
“Viktor is bench press, snatch, and clean-and-jerk champion of Siberia,” said Zuyev, skirting the tables and going through a door into a small private dining room. “He is training for the Olympics. We are very proud of him.”
“I should like to see the weight room later,” said Rostnikov.
“You lift, don’t you?” said Viktor.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“I knew it,” said the young man.
They sat around the table with white mugs and matching white plates set before them. Two platters of cookies stood on the table, along with insulated pitchers that Zuyev identified as Brazilian coffee and black tea.
It seemed to Rostnikov, who reached for the coffee, more like an informal party than the beginning of an investigation into the death of a foreign visitor.
“You’ve met Viktor Panin,” said Zuyev, nodding at the bald and smiling young man. “He, and the rest of us, are on the governing board, in addition to which Anatoliy Lebedev,” he nodded this time at the old man, “is the Alorosa mine director.”
Which left . . .
“Fyodor Andreiovich Rostnikov,” said the bearded man, looking at Karpo. “Director of Security in Devochka and in the mines.”
There was a silence in the room, a waiting for someone to say what had to be said. Now Karpo knew why the bearded man looked familiar.
“Fyodor Andreiovich and I are brothers,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
“Ask.”
Iosef looked at Zelach and reached for a sticky apricot and mince pastry on the plate between them.
“Ask?” Zelach repeated looking around the room.
There were seventeen people at the tables. All of them but the two policemen were black.
“Ask,” said Iosef.
“What are we doing here?” asked Zelach.
“Being very conspicuous,” said Iosef, drinking some of the thick, dark tea from the blue mug in front of him. “Have another one of these. They’re delicious.”
Zelach took a pastry. It was his third. They were delicious. He would have liked to take one home for his mother but it would be awkward to ask and difficult to transport for the rest of the day.
They were being examined. Some of the black men—there were no women—looked at them directly, with reasonable curiosity, others were more furtive. Four men at a table got up to leave.
“It is my understanding from Titov . . . You know Titov in the foreign visitors section?”
“Yes,” said Zelach.
A pair of men in their late twenties now rose and departed.
“He says this is where Botswanans gather. There are places where Ghanaians do the same, and many other black Africans have their own niches.”
“But . . .”
“Our goal is to sit here and drive away customers by our very presence,” said Iosef.
“Why?”
“So that someone will eventually come to us, if for no reason other than to try to get us to leave.”
“There is no other way?” asked Zelach.
“Lots of other ways,” said Iosef, “but we only have nine days. Subtlety and discretion are not options. With each departure of customers, we come closer to . . .”
He paused as their waiter approached. He appeared to be the only waiter for the dwindling gathering. The man was very dark, hair cut almost to the scalp and showing a frost of gray. He had a thin mustache, which also showed signs of gray, and a smooth, youthful face that defied the hint of age.
“Finished?” the man asked pleasantly reaching for the platter.
Iosef stopped him by placing a hand over the plate.
“What do you call these pastries?”
“Vetkoek,” said the man.
“Deep fried dough filled with mince?” asked Iosef.
“Yes,” said the man, glancing over at another pair of departing customers. “And we add apricots. If you wish, I can wrap some for you to take to your home or place of work.”
Zelach wanted to speak, but held back.
“No, thank you,” said Iosef with a smile. “We’ll take our time and eat these here. You are the owner of this establishment?”
“I am.”
“Your name?”
Iosef had removed from his pocket several of the white index cards he carried for notes. He paused, clicked his pen, and waited.
“Maticonay.”
Iosef wrote the name.
“I . . .”
“Business is good, Mr. Maticonay?”
“Fair.”
“We are policemen,” said Iosef.
“Yes,” said the man, looking at the low, sagging ceiling above him as Iosef put his cards and click pen on the table. Another two customers left.
“We want to ask you some questions, and if we like the answers we will leave and recommend your place to other policemen.”
“I would rather you did not recommend.”
“Then we will not.”
Iosef carefully withdrew an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. The man watched as Iosef removed two photographs and a drawing and placed them on the table.
“You know these men?”
The photographs of the two dead men on Paulinin’s autopsy tables were reasonably clear—clear enough to make it evident that the two men were dead.
“No,” said the man.
Iosef looked at Zelach who shook his head no.
“That’s not true,” said Iosef. “My partner is psychic, or maybe just sensitive to such things. If he says you are not telling the truth, then you are not telling the truth, Mr. Maticonay.”
“I’ve seen them.”
“I would appreciate their names and where they lived. In addition, I would like the name of their friend, a third man.”
Now Mr. Maticonay put his palms together, placed the tips of his fingers against his lips, and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at the drawing of the tattoo that was on both of the dead men. Mr. Maticonay’s knees were unsteady.
“Please sit,” said Iosef.
“No.”
“Then . . .”
“I have six children.”
“And?” asked Iosef.
“They would like to know their father when they are grown.”
“We live in
difficult times,” said Iosef.
“All times are difficult,” said Mr. Maticonay. “I cannot answer you.”
“Too late,” said Iosef. “You’ve been talking to us. You look distressed. We are being watched by the few of your customers who remain. If the people who wear this tattoo are like all gangs throughout the world, you are going to have a problem unless we help you.”
“You would have helped me by not coming into my shop and not changing my life,” Mr. Maticonay said. He sighed and continued. “Two men sitting back there, by the kitchen door.”
“Yes?”
“They wear this tattoo. It’s not a gang tattoo. It is a tribal marking.”
“You have only one word to say to me and you should be perfectly safe,” said Iosef. “The word is ‘no.’ I will get up and shout now and you will answer ‘no.’”
Iosef suddenly rose pushing back his chair, and shouting, “If you don’t tell me, we will have this placed closed by tomorrow.”
“No,” said Mr. Maticonay.
“You two,” said Iosef, looking at the two men near the kitchen who had risen from their table. “Where are you going?”
Zelach was up now, too.
“No one leaves,” Iosef continued. “For those who have not yet figured it out, we are the police. We want to talk to all of you. If you try to leave, my partner will be forced to shoot you.”
Zelach was up now, and Iosef whispered to him,
“The door.”
Zelach slouched quickly to the front door, blocking it with his body.
The two young men who had been seated at the table near the kitchen were up now. One of them reached for the kitchen door. Iosef had his gun in hand now.
“You will stop,” he shouted at the two men as customers went to the floor, hands covering their heads.
Both of the men at the kitchen door took out guns of their own and began firing as they pushed into the kitchen. Iosef and Zelach fired back. Mr. Maticonay, who had not gone to the floor, was on his way to it now, a bullet in his neck.
“A back way,” called Iosef to Zelach, who understood and went out into the street in search of a rear entrance.
Iosef glanced at Mr. Maticonay who sat stunned on the floor, his hand to his neck to try to stop the bleeding.
People Who Walk In Darkness (Inspector Rostnikov) Page 7