People Who Walk In Darkness (Inspector Rostnikov)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Chapter Eleven

  “Okay, let’s do it this way.”

  Kolokov was pacing around the room. With almost every step the buckled once-yellow linoleum on the floor crackled like the shell of a Botswanan click beetle.

  James was now tied to a white plastic chair. Electrical cord bound his wrists behind his back, eliminating all but minimal circulation. The faces of Kolokov and the bald man named Montez offered no sympathy.

  The room was large, the former kitchen of a dacha that had once belonged to the member of the Duma designated as Commissar of Transportation. The Commissar was dead, murdered by one of his assistants, named Rasmusen, who wished to show the newly minted Yeltsin government his hatred of the Communist regime.

  Now the dacha was abandoned, too close to the city to be considered a reasonable getaway by those who could now afford it, too expensive to restore for those who might consider it.

  The rusting pipes groaned. The wooden walls cracked. The linoleum floor buckled.

  “Do I blame you for trying to get away?” Kolokov went on, expecting no answer and getting none. “No. I would have done the same. But I must have cooperation.”

  He stopped pacing and looked at James, whose eyes were fixed straight ahead. He could endure his numb hands and the broken nose the Russian had given him. He could go without food. He had done it many times before, in Africa. What he could not tolerate was the smell of decay and cheap tobacco that came out of the mouth of Kolokov when he placed his face a few inches from James’s, as he did now.

  “Cooperation,” Kolokov continued.

  James gave no reaction.

  “Are you listening? If you are not listening, if you are not cooperating, what use are you to me? That is a real question. Answer it or you die.”

  “I am listening,” said James.

  “Good,” said Kolokov, looking at the bald man and allowing himself a small smile of success. “You will call your friends. You will tell them to be in front of the Eternal Flame by the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior at the Moscow War Memorial in Alexandrovsky Gardens at ten o’clock tonight. They will have with them either a sizable package of diamonds or an even one . . .”

  He looked at the bald man who stared blankly back.

  “. . . no, two million euros. Cash,” Kolokov continued. “You understand?”

  “Yes,” said James.

  James was having trouble breathing. Kolokov had smashed his nose, blocking off all air. James could only breathe through his swollen mouth.

  “You know what happens if you try to escape again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Thirsty?”

  “No,” James lied.

  “I killed your companions because they would not tell me how to reach your friends, but you are cooperating. I have no reason to kill you. I am not a monster.”

  Kolokov lit a cigarette, pursed his lips, and added, “Now I think I will buy a bar in Zvenigorod. There is one whose bar I would gladly stand behind, within view of the monastery. Perhaps Montez and I could persuade the present owners to sell. What do you think?”

  “Yes,” said James.

  “Yes? That is not a thought.”

  “You can probably convince the owners to sell,” said James.

  The bald Montez moved. Yes, like a big, dark click beetle after an hour of dormancy, he moved the right hand at his side and came up with a cell phone.

  “Now, you make the call.”

  Montez flipped open the phone and brought it in front of James.

  “The number,” said Kolokov.

  James told him the number, and the Spaniard pressed it into the keypad. Montez placed the phone close enough to James’s face that he could speak into it. There was but one ring before the phone was answered. James gave the man who answered it a succinct message that ended with, “and bring with you either the last shipment of diamonds or two million euros.”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “And do no try to free me,” said James. “I am all right.”

  “We will not try to free you. We will bring the money or the diamonds.”

  Both were lies. James knew there was no way two million euros could be obtained. Nor could they or would they try to raise the money. They could not deliver the diamonds. The diamonds had already been delivered to the woman in Kiev. The courier had been murdered and the murderer had stolen the payment.

  There promised to be bloodshed at the War Memorial.

  James hoped that the blood would be that of his captors.

  “Are we going to have trouble?” asked Zelach, slouching through the door of the tiny grocery.

  Behind the counter stood a black colossus of a woman wearing a red and white bandana on her head. She was serving a man and woman in their sixties. The man wore glasses so thick that Zelach could not see his eyes, only a blown-up distortion that reminded him of a mad doctor in some old French movie. Zelach would gladly have left the shop before Iosef asked a single question.

  Iosef supplied all the energy for both of them. He smiled easy. Chatted. Got angry. Zelach did none of these things.

  Iosef was looking for Maxim the Watchman. The grocery had been Maxim Groshnev’s watch repair shop, which catered to mid-level Party members and the many people who had both reasonable and cheap watches that they hoped would keep telling them the time. But then, suddenly, there was no business. For a while the shop did well selling cheap American digital watches that looked like the real thing. But then even the market for cheap watches fell, and all Maxim had to count on were the secrets he paid for, traded for, and sold.

  The woman in front of the counter picked up her cloth tote bag filled with groceries, grabbed the arm of the goggle glasses man, and moved around the two policemen and out the door.

  “We are the police,” Iosef said, approaching the woman who stood behind the bar, her arms folded, a defiant look on her face.

  “I know.”

  “Do you know why we are here?” asked Iosef, who wore one of his most friendly smiles.

  “You want to purchase oranges, cheese, and bread for a quiet picnic in the park.”

  Iosef shook his head no and expanded his smile, suggesting that her remark had been particularly witty.

  “Maxim?” she said.

  “Maxim,” Iosef confirmed.

  Four black men had stopped to look through the window at the contest between Sister Ann and the policemen. Everybody knew they were policemen.

  Zelach was uneasy. In this neighborhood, violence had been done to both whites and blacks over the past dozen years. In this time men and women fleeing African tyranny or the consequences of their own criminal activity had encountered prejudice as their numbers increased. They acquired firearms as their people were targeted.

  “Why?” Sister Ann asked.

  “A purchase of information,” said Iosef, picking up a huge bar of Czech chocolate from a box on the counter. The chocolate was covered in a silvery wrap and a simple white paper label.

  Sister Ann looked at the candy in Iosef’s hand. Iosef threw the wrapped chocolate over his shoulder in the general direction of Zelach who caught it cleanly.

  “He is here,” said Iosef, looking back at Zelach.

  Zelach nodded.

  “No, he is home,” Sister Ann insisted.

  “He has no home,” said Iosef softly. “He does not want to be somewhere where he might be a target for those who have done business with him or heard about him. He carries a bedroll and thousands of euros and a sack of diamonds.”

  Maxim the Watchman was now one of the most successful fences in Moscow, a city within whose encircling border at least three hundred fences operated. Few, however, had the success of the Watchman. He supplied information to the police for the right to stay in business. It was the same reason he gave information to men of the Mafia.

  Iosef took out a handful of rubles from his pocket and placed them on the counter.

&nbs
p; “For the chocolate,” he said, moving toward the door at the rear of the cramped store.

  Zelach held the bar of chocolate awkwardly in his hand. The bar was too big for any of his pockets. Besides, it might begin to melt. He considered throwing the confection in the garbage but resisted the urge.

  As Iosef opened the door, Zelach began slowly, carefully tearing the wrapper from the chocolate.

  “You are here. Good,” said Iosef genially as he went through the door.

  The room was little more than a closet. A wiry old man with a bush of white hair was seated on a stool in front of a counter. Maxim, with pull-down enlarging glasses, was repairing a watch.

  “Rebuilding,” he said.

  His voice was raspy, almost raw. He did not offer them a seat. There were no seats and there was no room for them. On a shelf above the work table was a monitor. On the monitor was the interior of the grocery. Sister Ann was looking up at the camera.

  “I’ve forgotten your name,” Maxim said. “But I know you are the son of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. Are you more reasonable than your father . . .”

  “No. I am Iosef, and this is Detective Zelach,” said Iosef, no longer smiling.

  “You are not wearing a watch,” said Maxim. “I still have a few that I could give to you as a gift, were I allowed to present anything to the police that might be construed as a bribe.”

  “I know the time,” said Zelach, nibbling at a piece of chocolate he had broken off.

  He offered the chocolate bar to Iosef, who broke off a piece. It was bittersweet, delicious.

  “You know what time it is without looking at a timepiece?” asked Maxim with a smile, looking at Iosef.

  There was little Zelach might do that would surprise Iosef, who now watched for the latest hidden skill of his partner.

  “It is 11:57 in the morning,” said Zelach.

  Maxim looked at his watch and then at Zelach.

  “You are within two minutes,” said Maxim.

  “He is a man of many talents,” said Iosef, offering the chocolate bar to the old man.

  “Thank you,” said Maxim, who cracked off a piece of chocolate, looked at what he had taken, made a what-the-hell shrug, and began to eat.

  “Three men, black,” said Iosef. “Two are tall. One is short, chunky, wears glasses.”

  “There are six of them. Sometimes they shop here,” said Maxim.

  “There are only three now,” said Iosef. “Two are dead, one is missing. A Russian ten-euro gangster has him.”

  “And you want to know where you can find the last three?”

  “Yes,” said Iosef.

  “It would be very dangerous to provoke these men, even if you had a little army. The tallest one is a little mad.”

  “We will be careful. Thank you for your concern. An address?”

  “I don’t know the address, but I can tell you the building.”

  “He won’t know,” said Patrice, playing with a sharpened pencil, turning it over and over between the long fingers of his left hand like a miniature baton.

  Patrice, Biko, and Laurence were about to leave the small apartment. They could stand it no longer. Patrice had spent one year in a Botswanan prison on suspicion of smuggling diamonds from the mine in which he had been working. The suspicions were well founded. All small rooms felt like prison cells.

  The others were not much better. While Patrice had a nervousness about him, Biko was calm, seldom moving unless it was necessary, and then doing so with often vicious speed and murderous efficiency. These two men were his fellow thieves, no more. Biko’s real loyalty lay with his wives and children. For them he would die. For them he would kill even small children. He had no religion other than his family. He did, however, have a great respect for James Harumbaki as a leader who had made Biko’s life comfortable. Biko had begun life in Sudan with nothing but the likelihood of starvation after the loss of his three sisters and his parents. Biko had been nine. He had no god or gods, no country. He knew he was not smart like James or even Patrice, but he was more ruthless than they. They counted on him for the actions they did not want to take.

  Laurence was a survivor. He had joined his first group of mercenaries when he was ten. He did not know what they stood for or if they stood for anything. The leader of the small band was known as Justin. Justin had used Laurence as a sex object and a boy soldier. Laurence’s one goal in life had been to graduate to bigger and bigger guns. He had succeeded. When Justin was killed by one of his own men after a drunken night, Laurence had joined another group and then another, and he was always used in some way. Chance had taken him to Botswana. Chance had put him in contact with James Harumbaki when both were waiting for a malaria injection at a free clinic. James took Laurence in. He did not abuse or take advantage of Laurence. And now Laurence had money in a bank, which he had never considered possible. He had not even known what a bank was until James taught him. And then James taught him to read and write English. Now Laurence was ready to kill or be killed if it could save James Harumbaki.

  “I do not care if he knows,” said Biko. “You give them to the Russian, he looks, then he tries to kill us and James Harumbaki, but we kill him first.”

  “We do not want James hurt,” said Laurence.

  “No,” agreed Patrice.

  Patrice’s plan was simple. He had purchased twenty smooth, bumpy, small rocks, each milky white and crystalline. Light could be seen through the rocks if they were held up to the sun or a strong lamp. He had placed the rocks in a black miniature rectangular case the size of a laptop computer. The rocks nestled on a plush black velvet surface nestled into niches in the material. This was not the best way to pass real diamonds. That was best done by putting the diamonds in a plain canvas bag with a drawstring and stuffing them into a jacket pocket or up your ass. This display of quartz was designed for show and to fool a Russian.

  “He knows nothing about diamonds,” said Patrice.

  “You are sure?” asked Laurence.

  “I talked to him. He pretends. He speaks of pipes and carats but his words betray him. The Russian is a thug. Besides, we have no choice. We have no cash. We have no diamonds. I cannot reach Balta. I went to the club. He has not returned. He has missed shows for three nights. He is not bringing back our money or the diamonds.”

  “Then we find and kill him,” said Biko. “We go to Kiev and kill him.”

  “We will, but we have no time now,” said Patrice. “We need to rescue James Harumbaki.”

  We need to rescue him, Patrice thought, so he can tell us what to do.

  “Balta will not be easy to kill,” said Laurence, adjusting his glasses.

  “Everyone is easy to kill,” said Biko.

  Patrice shoved the pad of paper upon which he had been pretending to make notes into his pocket and stood.

  They headed for the door, Laurence in the lead. He stepped quickly onto the darkened landing on the third floor of the building. They were greeted by the pungent smell of curry, which Biko found mildly displeasing.

  The stairway was narrow, barely wide enough for two people. Patrice led the way down followed by Laurence and Biko. Twenty-six steps from the ground level alcove, amid the odors of curry and the sound of distinctly Indian music, the front door below them opened.

  The three men stopped. They were looking down at the two men who had confronted them in the cafe.

  Fortunately for Iosef and Zelach, they were a little more prepared than the Africans. The policemen had entered the building knowing that they might well find themselves in another gun battle. The Africans, on the other hand, while always somewhat alert, were not prepared for the sight of the two policemen.

  Five men reached for handguns. Iosef fired first. Zelach fired at the same instant as Laurence. Biko and Laurence were at a disadvantage. Patrice stood between them and the two men below, who were now firing up at them.

  There was a door on each side of the alcove. Iosef threw himself against the one on the right, which cra
cked on brittle hinges, sending the detective tumbling into a darkened room. There were two more shots as Iosef righted himself and moved to the open doorway. Then, the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. Something thudding, tumbling down. And there sat Zelach, as if he were a soldier taking a break after a long march, his weapon in his lap.

  Iosef decided. He stepped into the alcove and turned his weapon upward. As he did, the body of Patrice took a tumble down the final three steps, almost knocking Iosef over. There was no one else on the steps. Biko and Laurence had retreated upward. Iosef kicked the fallen man’s weapon across the floor.

  “Zelach,” Iosef called, aiming his weapon first at the fallen Botswanan and then up the stairs to the darkened landing.

  “Yes,” said Zelach. “I slipped. I’m not hurt.”

  At times, thought Iosef fleetingly, it is not a disadvantage to be a clumsy slouch.

  “The stairs,” said Iosef.

  The music had stopped, but no doors opened.

  “Yes,” said Zelach, who got awkwardly to his knees and took two-handed aim up the stairs. “Is he dead?”

  Iosef had leaned over the fallen Patrice, looked into his eyes, and gently felt for a pulse in the man’s neck that he was unlikely to find, given the round, bleeding hole of darkness just under the fallen man’s right eye.

  “He is dead.”

  Unless they had barricaded themselves inside Apartment 4, where Maxim the Watchman had told them the men could be found, the Africans were gone. The question was: Where were they going?

  Iosef went through the pockets of the dead man. There was a wallet with sixteen hundred euros and photographs of the dead man with an old woman and another man about the age of the dead man, whose name, Iosef now saw, was Patrice Dannay. Iosef turned the photograph over and found the people in it identified: Patrice—the dead man—Mother, and James Harumbaki, the man Iosef had seen running down the street, bleeding a trail of red.

  Apartment 4 was unlocked, the door wide open. The fleeing men had paused or entered. Iosef motioned Zelach to one side of the door, just to be sure, and then he stepped inside.

  The room was barracks bare, reminding him not only of the years he had spent in Afghanistan, but of the small neighborhood holding prisons of the Moscow Police.