The Siberian Dilemma

by Martin Cruz Smith

  “Yes, we did. How did you find me?” Arkady gathered his notes into his dossier cover.

  “I wasn’t looking for you. It’s pure happenstance. Fate. Am I disturbing your work?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Bolot turned to the bartender. “A Guinness for me too.”

  “Do you believe that?” Arkady asked. “That everything is fate?”

  “Of course. What else? Can you imagine how confusing life would be without fate? In fact, I can produce evidence for you. Remember how on the airplane you were curious about Mikhail Kuznetsov?”

  “You found him?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but progress has definitely been made.” He lifted his glass. “Cheers!”

  “Exactly how much progress?”

  “I have every good reason to believe that Kuznetsov is nearby. Which, considering he could be in the South of France, is a lucky break.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was seen at an ice sculpture exhibit and his picture was in the newspaper.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “In fact, he had a beautiful woman on his arm.”

  “This is the ‘hermit billionaire’ we’re talking about? Do you have the newspaper?”

  “Unfortunately, no. However, I’m learning the way you think. For example, I found you in this booth in this pub. Why? Because you have the mind of a detective. From this booth and only this booth, you can survey the entire clientele coming or going. I learn something new every day.”

  “I thought you were trying to get to Boris Benz.”

  “I’m rethinking that venture. The problem is, if you work for Benz, you have to snatch your dinner from the lion’s mouth.”

  “How is Kuznetsov different?”

  “Kuznetsov is not Buryat, but he is, at least a little bit, Siberian. Benz is an outsider and only cares about himself. He’s a gang leader and Kuznetsov is a statesman, so I’ve decided to look for him instead.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “That is just the first of many services I can provide for you as a factotum. I know the lay of the land.”

  “And you own three out of the four tires on your car.”

  “And I speak Buryat. Do you speak Buryat?”

  “What does that have to do with Mikhail Kuznetsov, the wealthiest man in the world?”

  “I don’t know. Neither do you. Now look: See these people coming in the door? Describe them.”

  Arkady saw four Mongolians in quilted parkas pushing through a revolving door and said as much.

  “Not bad,” Bolot said. “But only two are Mongolian; the other two are Buryat. They’re hunters, home from a week in the taiga tracking sable and lynx. You can see by their snowshoes and small-caliber rifles.”

  “How can you tell the difference between Mongolians and Buryats?”

  “All Buryats are Mongolian but not all Mongolians are Buryats. See, now they’re heading straight for the bar, so they had a good hunt.”

  “It sounds as if you have hunted.”

  “I’ve done many things,” Bolot said enigmatically. “Most Russians have only scratched the surface of Siberia.”

  “It’s an entertaining thought, but I already have a car and driver.”

  “You mean that bumpkin boy from the police? He couldn’t find his ass from his elbow. You could be two places at once if we work together.”

  Oddly enough, Arkady thought, Bolot had a point. And once the investigation of Makhmud was over, Arkady would continue searching for Tatiana and still need a car and driver. Who better than a native?

  “How much would you charge for this service?” Arkady asked.

  “This is the best part. Nothing.”

  “Except the cost of a fourth tire to your car, which would make it effectively yours.”

  “Yes. That might be the case.”

  “We’ll give it a trial run.”

  “Excellent.” Bolot smiled so brightly, his gold tooth winked. “What do you have to lose?”

  15

  As the warden led Arkady and Makhmud to the interrogation room, the prisoners in their cells were watchful and silent, turning as a group like fish in an aquarium.

  It was the sweat of bodies and the funk of stale cigarettes, the rotting smell of addicts and the fruity, ever-present bouquet of human waste and buzz of flies that made life sad. It was the triumph of hopelessness.

  Warden Kostich said, “It’s not the Winter Palace, but what do they deserve?”

  “It is a little cold,” Arkady said. His lips felt blue; maybe they didn’t look it, but they felt it.

  “He not going to talk,” Kostich said. “He hasn’t said a word since he’s been here, not even to his public defender. Anyway, what do you care? You’re the investigator for the prosecutor Zurin. If he never talks, you’ve still done your job.”

  When they reached the interrogation cell, they found it already occupied by two guards and a drunk in a disheveled suit.

  “Who is this?” Arkady asked.

  “The public defender.” Kostich dragged the man by his necktie to a sitting position and attempted to perform introductions. “Marcus Federov, this is Arkady Renko.”

  Federov slumped back on the bench.

  “Will somebody get the public defender a cup of tea?”

  “I don’t think he’s in any condition to defend anyone,” Arkady said.

  “He’s probably been here since yesterday,” Kostich said.

  “It looks that way,” Arkady said.

  The warden pulled Marcus Federov to his feet. It was difficult to keep him upright on unsteady legs, and the effort cost the warden a coughing jag.

  “You should see a doctor,” Arkady said.

  Kostich spat blood into a handkerchief. “What would the doctors tell me? That I have tuberculosis and they have to retire me early at half pay? They’d love to do that. They’d get a bonus. Fuck the doctors.”

  Arkady almost sympathized with the warden. Tuberculosis stalked the guards as well as the prisoners. The prison was a place where bodies crawled over each other and mixed their sputum and bacilli, and it occurred to Arkady that the warden was as much a prisoner as Aba Makhmud.

  “Has the public defender apprised the defendant of his rights?” Arkady asked. “Has he been allowed to make his one phone call?”

  “Shit,” said Kostich.

  “I didn’t think so,” Arkady said.

  The interrogation room had a Formica table with cigarette scars, two benches screwed to the floor, white walls, white bars, and a bucket to spit into.

  “Okay, let’s clean this shithouse up,” said Kostich. “Pour some strong coffee into our friend Marcus and get him out of here.”

  Another guard led Aba into the interrogation room and seated him opposite Arkady.

  Arkady set his tape recorder in the middle of the table and turned it on.

  “Check. I am Arkady Kirilovich Renko, senior investigator for the Moscow prosecutor. Present with me are Warden Vasily Kostich and the accused, Aba Makhmud. It is January 10, 2019, and”—looking at his watch—“ten a.m.”

  “Name?”

  Silence.

  “Date of birth?”

  Silence.

  “Do you know what you’re accused of?”

  Makhmud folded his hands and looked down.

  “At this rate we’re going nowhere.” Kostich was disgusted. “All we need is a confession and we have that. I just need it on tape. Call me when he’s ready to talk.” The warden got up and left.

  Arkady and Aba watched the spools of the recorder grind. Arkady reached over and turned it off.

  “These are our pissy nights, in prissy tights and totally fucked weather. Or do you prefer ‘ebony’?” Arkady asked.

  Makhmud couldn’t help himself. “That Tolya, he is the source of the worst poetry I have ever heard in my life.”

  “It’s pretty bad,” Arkady agreed.

  “It’s pathetic,” Makhmud said.
/>   “So, can you answer some questions?”

  Makhmud shrugged. “It doesn’t change anything. Why should I help you? You’re the prosecution, the enemy. I’ve already made a confession. What more do you want?”

  It was progress, Arkady felt. He lit cigarettes for Makhmud and started again, but with the most innocuous biographical questions. It was a little like plumping a pillow, getting a prisoner to relax.

  A half hour into the conversation, Arkady asked, “How is your family going to take this?”

  “My mother will cry, my father will be proud, and my brother will laugh.”

  “What have you got against Prosecutor Zurin?”

  “He’s a sack of shit.”

  “I mean specifically.”

  “He just is.”

  “ ‘Just is’? Okay, what does he have against you?”

  “He has a hard-on for Chechens.”

  “That’s it? According to the statements of eyewitnesses, you attempted to shoot Prosecutor Zurin. Did you know he was going to be there at Lovers’ Bridge?”

  “No.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “Maybe, I couldn’t tell.”

  “Traditionally, lovers declare their love by hanging a padlock on the bridge. It’s very popular. Were you with a girl?”

  “No. It’s an idiotic fad. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Then why were you there?”

  “There’s such a thing as walking by.”

  “Were you going someplace?”

  “No.”

  “And you happened to recognize Prosecutor Zurin?”

  “I would recognize that scumbag anywhere.”

  “Did you have words?”

  “No, I just gave him the finger.”

  “That’s quite an escalation, from a finger to a gun. All without a word?”

  “That’s the way it was.”

  “Zurin said nothing?”

  “What does it matter? Either way, I tried.”

  “You don’t seem to be a very good shot. What time of day was this taking place?”

  “Broad daylight. Hey, maybe I should be the investigator. I think I’d win this case pretty easily. Is Zurin going to be there when I get sentenced?”

  “In absentia. He’s a busy man.”

  “I bet he is. I just bet he is. He’d love to turn the screw. So, how many years should I expect to get?”

  “That’s a problem. Encroachment on an officer of the law is terrorism. Even if we get them to drop the charge of aggravated assault and catch an amnesty, maybe ten years.”

  “Ten years.” Makhmud exhaled a long plume of smoke. “That’s the spring and summer of my life, isn’t it?”

  “Not a bad way of putting it.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the hotel, Tolya snapped glances at Arkady. “You didn’t sign off on Makhmud’s confession.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why? Everyone else is satisfied. Public Defender Marcus is satisfied. Zurin is satisfied. Even Makhmud is satisfied.”

  “I wasn’t satisfied,” Arkady said.

  “With what?”

  “We’ll clear it up. As the warden likes to say, nobody behind bars is going anywhere.”

  Tolya pondered what Arkady had done. “I don’t get it. I say if a man wants to go to jail, you should let him.”

  “Well, I’m a killjoy.”

  As soon as Tolya dropped him off, Arkady went to his room and dropped flat on his bed and closed his eyes. He found himself caring more about Makhmud’s case than he had anticipated. He tried calling Tatiana, but it was like playing a slot machine that never paid off. After ten rings, he hung up and tried Zhenya without success. Finally, when he started to feel that everyone he knew had moved to a different planet, he tried Victor at his house.

  “Where the devil are you?” Victor asked.

  “Irkutsk.”

  “You actually went. Are you on a case or simply out of your mind?”

  “I’m out here to find Tatiana, but what you don’t know is that Prosecutor Zurin has asked me to interrogate a young Chechen named Aba Makhmud.”

  “What’s he accused of?”

  “Attempted murder. He shot at Zurin and missed.”

  “Too bad.”

  “You haven’t heard from Tatiana by any chance, have you?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t expect to.”

  “How are you doing?” Arkady asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m in disrepute. Bad behavior since my last binge. Why I should give a damn, I don’t know, but Nina is losing patience. If it weren’t for you, they would have dropped me down a deep hole long ago.”

  “I can come back.”

  “Do that and I’ll shoot you.”

  “In that case, I have some work for you. Are you sober?”

  “Oddly enough, I am.”

  “The Aba Makhmud shooting took place January third at Lovers’ Bridge in Moscow. It’s a favorite sight for photographers to take wedding pictures. Find out who was working the bridge that day between the hours of two and three p.m. It should be fun.”

  “It sounds like hell.”

  “If they’re professionals, they’ll have digital contact sheets. Go to the bridge and chat up the photographers. They will remember because of the shooting. Get contact sheets from them.”

  “Won’t that cost a lot of money?”

  “Not if you tell them it’s a police investigation. The important thing is to get all the photos you can. Different people, different angles.”

  “It sounds like you’re getting interested in this kid Makhmud and getting carried away.”

  “I’m here on an investigation. I might as well act like an investigator.”

  Arkady looked out his hotel window. An argument was taking place in a welter of red police lights down on the street, where officers seemed to be choosing sides or going with the highest bidder. Arkady was not going to get involved.

  “Arkady?” Victor asked. “Are you there?”

  “I’m sorry, my mind wandered.”

  “I was asking how long this case is going to take. We don’t want to get too far out of touch. Is it beautiful out there at Lake Baikal?”

  “I haven’t been there yet.”

  “I read about it. Deepest lake in the world. Holds more fresh water than all other lakes in the world combined. It has all kinds of fish and animals you never see anywhere else. Like the DTs.”

  “That’s one way to describe them,” Arkady said.

  “And then you’ll come back, right?”

  “After I find Tatiana.”

  “I’m on my way to Lovers’ Bridge. Call me back tomorrow.”

  Arkady hung up. Then he dialed Tatiana again and let the phone ring ten times before giving up.

  16

  It was late afternoon by the time Arkady left the hotel and walked down to the Angara River, as it churned its way north. He veered to Central Square, where music of the Beatles was being piped through loudspeakers.

  The square had been transformed into an illuminated dreamscape of ice and music. He walked through a maze of ice sculptures and stopped to watch children scream with pleasure as they flew down an ice slide. Hannibal’s elephants climbed across the Alps, Pinocchio was astonished by the size of his nose, Don Quixote raised his lance, a porpoise leapt into a crystal wave. Arkady especially liked a sculpture of three drunken reprobates sitting on a bench, looking for trouble. Even their little dog seemed to be looking for trouble.

  He paused to contemplate an ice creature that was half tiger, half beaver, with a sable in its mouth.

  “It’s Babr, an imaginary creature,” a voice said. “It’s on Irkutsk’s coat of arms.”

  Arkady turned to find Bolot standing behind him.

  “Are you following me, or just lurking in general?”

  “It’s fate,” Bolot said. His face was creased by a huge smile. The earflaps of his muskrat hat gave him a devil-may-care air. “Remember, I have hun
ted sable.”

  “I remember,” said Arkady.

  Bolot followed as Arkady moved on toward a single ballerina standing in front of a glistening corps de ballet.

  “Beautiful.” Bolot spread his arms as if he could take credit.

  The hand of the prima ballerina suddenly snapped off. Arkady thought perhaps the wrist was too delicate to support the hand. While he stood still watching, two more holes silently pierced her heart. These were rifle shots coming from the direction of the Senate.

  Arkady scanned the crowd. The festival was filled with children in spite of the late hour. Younger children rode on their parents’ shoulders and more were still arriving.

  “Get your head down!” Arkady shouted at Bolot.

  Bolot was ahead and unaware. “Why?”

  “Someone’s shooting at us. Do you have a gun?”

  “No. Why would I have a gun?”

  “Then get the police.”

  People around Arkady didn’t realize they were under attack. Children screamed with glee as fireworks sizzled overhead. Whistling pinwheels, sparkling fountains, and weeping willows lit up the night. A bullet snatched Arkady’s fur hat off his head and he hit the ground, his face planted on the ice. He dared not move. Next to him the bullet went on spinning, nose down, until it expended all its rotational energy and came to a stop. A subsonic bullet was able to kill at five hundred meters. Paradoxically it could penetrate steel but was stopped by ice.

  Arkady dodged from one ice sculpture to another as Don Quixote’s head shattered and Pinocchio lost his nose. One of Hannibal’s elephants lost a tusk, yet the crowd saw only fireworks.

  Arkady tracked the shot to the Senate where a figure stood on the Senate roof. Dressed in black, he could have been invisible. Arkady fought his way through the crowd into the building, but by the time he climbed four flights of stairs and emerged on the roof, the shooter was gone.

  Arkady went to the edge where the figure had been and looked across a square full of people swaying and dancing to “Yellow Submarine.” One man moved purposely through the crowd carrying what looked like a ski bag and paused for one moment to look up at the grand finale. Chrysanthemum fireworks blossomed one by one and comets streaked across the sky.