by Glenn Meade
“Answer the question, Rizov. I’m not in the mood for playing around. This is important. Who’d be daring enough to steal ether?”
Rizov sighed, put a hand to his forehead, and thought for a moment, then looked up. “Perhaps the Crimean gypsies. Or the Turkistans. They’re a bunch of reckless crazies who deal in drugs and stuff. They’d steal the food off a policeman’s plate if they thought there was a profit in it.”
“Give me names.”
Rizov shook his head and laughed. “Major, as Stalin is my judge, I keep away from that lot. They’re not only mad, they’re dangerous. Even the threat of being sent to the camps doesn’t frighten them. Like weeds, they’d thrive in that kind of manure.”
Lukin’s hand slapped hard on the table. “Names, Rizov! I want names! They’re acquaintances of yours. You work the black market together.”
“On the grave of my dead mother, I know none of them. And even if I did and ratted, they’d have my eyeballs for worry beads.”
Lukin grabbed the man by his shirt collar. “You’re a lying rogue, Rizov. And your mother’s alive and living in Kiev.”
“I don’t associate with those people, Major. Drugs, they’re too risky. I stick to food and clothes.”
Lukin looked about the room. “You like living here?”
Rizov threw an eye quickly over the filthy, tiny flat and said flippantly, “Sure. I love it.” He saw the look on Lukin’s face, and his tone became more respectful. “It could be worse.”
“Worse than a log hut in some icy corner of Siberia?”
“It’s just as cold here, believe me. And the plumbing hardly ever works.”
“Rizov, get it into your thick skull, I’m not playing games.”
“You wouldn’t have me sent to Siberia, Major Lukin. You’re too kind a man. Besides, what have I done?”
Lukin nodded at the suitcases on the bed. “That stuff may even be worth ten years if I recommend it. And believe me, I’ll recommend it if you don’t cooperate.”
Rizov’s face drained. “Major—”
“Think about it. An old dog like you doesn’t need the hard road. Talk with your black-market friends. Use all your charm and cunning. If anyone bought ether in the last few days I want to know about it.”
He saw the puzzled frown on Rizov’s face and said, “Someone used it to carry out a serious crime. Don’t fail me on this one, or I swear I’ll have you on a prison train to Archangel by morning.”
Lukin let go of the man and put the empty bottle on the table. “Take this. It may help your Turkmenistan friends remember. Tell them from me that if they don’t come up with answers, they’ll be keeping you company on the train.” He took a slip of paper from his pocket and slapped it on the table. “You have an hour, no more. Call me at this number.”
He crossed to the door and skewered Rizov with a steely look. “I mean it, don’t fail me. One hour. It’s a matter of life and death.”
• • •
The room stank like a sewer, and so did Lebel. A blinding light blazed in the ceiling, and his body was drenched in sweat. As Lebel came awake in the filthy cell and struggled to sit up he found he couldn’t. He was lying on a metal table and tied down with leather straps. He had come awake to the sound of distant screams, and it didn’t take long to remember where he was.
The cellars of the Lubyanka.
His body ached with pain, and his mouth felt twisted. He tasted blood on his lips. The two men had beaten him senseless, punching and kicking him in the kidneys and stomach until the pain was unbearable and he threw up.
Then they started on his face. Punches and blows that made his head swim and finally left him unconscious. When Lebel came to they started all over again, this time with rubber hoses, until he passed out once more.
Now he moaned and looked down at his body. His shirt and vest were gone. And his shoes and socks, although he still had his trousers. He had wet his pants after the painful blows to his kidneys.
Lebel slumped back on the table. He had been through it all before with the Gestapo. And what worried him was that he knew the real torture hadn’t even started yet. The men had only softened him up. The worst was yet to come.
As Lebel lay in agony, he tried to consider his options. He had none really, except to tell Romulka everything. And then what? The man would probably kill him. He wondered what Romulka already knew. Very little. Otherwise, why bring him here? He was probing, trying to find answers.
He could keep playing dumb and hope that Romulka would tire of the interrogation and let him go. But he guessed that Romulka wasn’t the type to tire. Besides, a thug like him enjoyed inflicting pain.
Lebel had connections in Moscow. Someone would intervene. But when? And by then it might be too late. Confessing wouldn’t help Massey. And it wouldn’t help Massey’s friends. Above all, it wouldn’t help Irena.
That thought worried him. Imprisoned, he had no way of warning her.
But Lebel wasn’t going to talk. He wasn’t going to give her away. He knew now that his only chance was to hold out and deny everything.
A door clanged open. Romulka came into the room flanked by the two men who had given him the beating. “Have you reconsidered, Lebel?”
Sweat ran down Lebel’s face. He said hoarsely, “I told you, you’re making a dreadful mistake . . .I’m an innocent man. Your superiors will hear of this . . .”
Romulka stepped closer and gripped Lebel’s face hard. “Listen to me, you little Jew. I haven’t the patience or the time for games. You either talk or, I swear, what the Gestapo did to you is nothing compared to the treat you have in store. In fact, Lebel, I can promise you that you’ll never see daylight again.”
“On my life, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then let’s try and change that.”
Romulka stepped over to a table in the corner. Lebel craned his neck and saw to his horror a selection of instruments and tools of torture that made his blood run cold.
“I always find concentrating on a man’s weaknesses is the best approach.” Romulka selected an odd-looking implement with two small cup-shaped metal scoops with leather pads inside and a screw handle on the end.
“A little something we borrowed from the tsar’s secret police. They considered it most effective. It’s a genital clamp. Know what it does? Enough turns of this handle here and it can crush a man’s family jewels. But very slowly, and very painfully. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
Romulka turned to the men and nodded. One tied a gag around Lebel’s mouth, while the other pulled down his sodden trousers and underpants. Romulka came forward, and Lebel watched in horror as the implement was slipped under his groin and secured. He gritted his teeth as he struggled behind the gag.
Romulka turned the screw handle, and the implement tightened around Lebel’s crotch.
There was an excruciating, sickening pain, and Lebel felt as if a bolt of electricity had shot through his spine. His brain exploded with agony, and he saw stars and felt the nausea to the pit of his stomach.
He screamed behind the gag and passed out.
• • •
The large house in the Degunino District north of Moscow was built of wood and brick and had once been the home of a wealthy tsarist officer, but now it was badly dilapidated and the roof leaked. Massey sat in the front room of a shabby second-floor apartment. It was sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs. An iron bed and a wardrobe in the small bedroom next door were the only other items of furniture, but there was a new tube radio sitting on a box near the bed. The place smelled of rot and damp, and the air was biting cold, despite the woodstove lit in the corner.
Massey had changed out of the uniform, and now he wore a cloth cap and a coarse, frayed suit under his overcoat. On the table in front of him were a bowl of cabbage soup and some fresh bread, but he ignored the food and concentrated on the map of Moscow lying next to it.
The man seated opposite poured vodka into two glasses and said
gruffly in Russian, “You want to tell me what exactly is going on, Americanski?”
Massey looked up. The man was big and red-haired and powerfully built. He wore a filthy woolen scarf around his neck, and his black suit was worn and shiny. He was the former Ukrainian SS captain Massey had dispatched from Munich six weeks before. It seemed so long ago Massey had difficulty remembering the face when the man had ushered him into the apartment. He looked older, his jaws unshaven.
Massey said flatly, “You got the signal with your instructions.”
“On the Voice of America. It said to give you total assistance, that it was top priority . . .”
“Then that’s all you need to know. Tell me about the dacha.”
A war spent in SS uniform had taught the Ukrainian not to argue with an order. He nodded and pointed to a place on the map. “Sergei’s there now, covering the place. So far it seems the occupants haven’t moved.”
“How many people?”
“Sergei saw two, he thinks the man and woman you’re after, but the signal said there was another woman. He hasn’t seen her, but she could be inside.”
“Can we contact Sergei by phone?”
The Ukrainian laughed. “Listen, this is Moscow, not Munich. I was lucky to get this dump of a place a month ago after I found work. It hasn’t even got a bath. The only way Sergei and I can keep in touch is a communal pay phone in the hallway below. Sergei has to drive to a kiosk in a village five minutes from the dacha if he wants to contact me.” The man shrugged. “An unhelpful situation, and hardly conducive to surveillance, but there you have it.”
Massey saw the tension on the man’s face. He was living on his nerves, constantly in fear of being caught. “At least you’ve been coping.”
The Ukrainian grimaced. “Munich seems like a lifetime ago, and we were lucky to get here. That crippled Finnish pilot of yours dropped us two miles from our target, in a filthy swamp that it took us half the night to wade out of. I think the swine did it deliberately.” He shrugged. “But we’re still alive, and that counts for something. We’ve both found jobs. Lucky for you, Sergei is a delivery driver, that’s how he borrowed the van. So far, the papers your people supplied have worked and no one’s bothered us.”
Massey turned back to the map. “Tell me about the dacha.” The man took several minutes to describe the location and the layout of the property, then Massey asked, “How far is it from here?”
“By taxi, over half an hour. But I suggest we take public transport. It’s more reliable and less conspicuous. An hour ought to do it. Sergei can take us back.”
“What if he telephones while we’re gone?”
The man shrugged. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. We’ll have to take the risk and hope your friends stay put. But if they move I gave Sergei orders to follow them.” He hesitated. “You still haven’t told me why we’re watching these people.”
Massey stood and crossed to where he had left his duffel bag. He removed a large, heavy cotton cloth and laid it on the table. He unrolled the cloth. Inside were two Tokarev pistols with silencers and spare magazines. There was also a disassembled Kalashnikov AK-47.
The Ukrainian looked at the weapons, then over at Massey, and grinned. “We’re going to kill them?”
“You’ve both had weapons training, so I don’t have to show you how to use these.”
The Ukrainian picked up the Kalashnikov and expertly assembled the parts. He checked the magazine and clicked it home. “My type of weapon—lethal. You didn’t answer my question, Americanski. We’re going to kill the people at the dacha?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look too happy about it.”
Massey ignored the remark and picked up a Tokarev and silencer. As he slipped the weapon and a spare magazine into his pocket, the Ukrainian looked at him.
“I don’t have to know why they’re going to die, but this is Moscow. What happens if we run into trouble and get caught?”
Massey held the man’s stare. “The dacha’s remote, so it’s unlikely the militia will turn up. We ought to have this over and done with and be back here in a couple of hours. Any problems with the militia and we still finish the job, no matter what it takes. Then we get out of there fast. I’ve got air transport out, and I take you and your friend with me. After this, you both have your freedom.”
The Ukrainian grinned. “That sounds better. This could turn out to be interesting. A little action won’t be bad after a month flattening my backside sitting in this dump. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be just like old times for Sergei and me, killing Russkis.”
Massey didn’t reply, looking grim, then picked up the other Tokarev, silencer, and magazine and handed them across. “For your friend. Let’s not waste any more time.”
• • •
The telephone rang on Lukin’s desk. He picked it up. Rizov’s voice. “Major Lukin?”
“This is Lukin.”
“I’ve done as you asked. One of the Turkmen claims he sold a bottle of ether to a woman two days ago at the Kazan market.”
Lukin grabbed a pencil and reached for the pad on his desk. “Did he get a description of the woman?”
“Late thirties. Matronly build. Good-looking. Dark hair. Reasonably well dressed. The man I spoke to sometimes sells anesthetics and drugs to the illegal abortion clinics, but this woman wasn’t one of his usual customers. And she seemed to have no shortage of rubles.”
“What about the woman’s name?”
“Are you joking?”
Lukin sighed. “Come on, Rizov, there has to be more. That description could fit a quarter of the women in Moscow.”
“The man never saw her before, that’s what made him remember. He remembers seeing her getting into a Czech Skoda parked across the street. Also, the woman bought another drug—adrenaline. And a single hypodermic syringe. He thought that was odd. That’s all I’ve got.”
Lukin thought for a moment. He knew a shot of adrenaline could be used to give a person an energy boost to overcome exhaustion. He had seen it used during the war. Someone in Slanski’s position might need such a drug to ward off tiredness. His pulse quickened. “Was there anyone else in the Skoda?”
“The man didn’t notice.”
“The color of the car?”
“Gray.”
“License number?”
Rizov snorted. “Major, these Turkmen in the black market can buy and sell like nobody’s business, but they can hardly read and write. License numbers they don’t notice.”
“There’s nothing else your friend remembers?”
“Nothing, I swear it.”
Lukin tore the sheet from the pad. He knew Rizov was telling the truth, but it was still little to go on. It might not even be the connection he was looking for, but it had to be investigated, and fast. He sighed with tiredness and frustration. “It’s not much. But I owe you a favor, Rizov.”
“I suppose an exit visa would be too much to ask?”
Lukin slammed down the phone. He was already moving toward the door when the telephone jangled again. He went back and lifted the receiver. It was Pasha’s voice. “We need to talk, Yuri.”
“It’ll have to wait. I thought I told you to rest.”
“No, it can’t wait. It’s important.” There was a pause, then Pasha said urgently, “It’s about the Wolf. It’s about Slanski.”
“What do you mean? What about him?”
There was another pause. “Meet me in the Sandunov bathhouse in ten minutes. Ask for me at the door.”
“Can’t you come here?”
The line clicked dead.
47
* * *
The faded wooden sign above the blackened granite building said SANDUNOV PUBLIC BATHS. The double oak doors were closed and locked, but Lukin saw a splinter of light showing at the bottom. He knocked hard and waited.
He glanced back down the cobbled lane. It was deserted. He had left the car parked outside the Berlin Hotel around the next corner a
nd walked.
What was Pasha playing at? And why meet here, at this hour? Sandunov was one of Moscow’s oldest public bathhouses. Pasha had been coming here for almost twenty years, and usually in the evening, when the steam rooms were quiet and he could have some privacy.
He heard the rattle of bolts behind the oak doors and turned. A middle-aged woman wearing a blue smock stood in the doorway. Her hair was tied in a bun, and her huge breasts seemed to unbalance her. “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.”
“I believe Pasha Kokunko is expecting me.” The woman studied him carefully for several moments, then looked out into the lane before she gestured for Lukin to enter.
He stepped into a warm tiled hallway. The woman closed the door and slid the bolts.
Most of the lights in the entrance hall were switched off, but across the hallway Lukin saw the cracked stone steps that led down to the bathhouse and the sweat rooms.
The woman crossed to the glass booth in the lobby and came back with a thick white cotton towel and a bunch of birch twigs tied with string. “Go down the steps and take the first door on the right. You’ll find Pasha in the sweat room.”
Lukin took the towel and birch twigs. The woman went to sit behind the glass booth and began counting a small mountain of kopeck coins and stacking them in neat piles.
Lukin went down the stone steps. He stopped halfway and sucked in a deep breath. He felt the warm steam mixed with a sharp fragrance of mint reach deep into the pit of his lungs, and it instantly soothed him. At the bottom of the steps he noticed that a glass door on the right was half open.
He stepped inside. He was in a dressing room lined with metal lockers. Wooden benches were set in a square around the center. Off to the left, another glass-fronted door, fogged with steam, led to one of the sweat rooms. Behind the fogged glass he saw a moving blur of flesh and heard a faint swishing sound.
There were three stages to the ritual of cleansing in the bathhouse. First came the sweat room, where you steamed and flayed your body with birch twigs until it burned red and the pores opened. Afterward you washed your body with hot sponges to cleanse your skin. Then you plunged into the icy water pools once it became too hot. And finally, you relaxed in the refreshment lounge.