Tarnished Icons ir-11

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Yevgeny turned off the television and went to work.

  Alexi Monochov had been standing across the street under the marquee of the Rossia Cinema when the two men came out of the Pushkin Square metro station. Alexi had been waiting for them. There was no doubt that they were policemen. They had the air of confidence and determination that such people had even when unwarranted. He could not get a close look, and even with his glasses, he was not able to tell much about them other than one was tall, thin, and dressed in black and the other was younger and stocky, not stocky like Alexi but a solid stocky. Still, Alexi was some distance away, and there was some frost on his glasses, so he may have been imagining things, but he had not imagined that Rostnikov now knew too much and that it was no longer safe to remain at home. Thus, he had prepared the note for the police and had carefully packed his briefcase, which he held in his gloved right hand as he crossed Pushkin Street to get a better look at the two men who entered his apartment building.

  Alexi had gotten out of the apartment with only about fifteen minutes to spare. He hadn’t really expected them to come so soon, but fortunately he had taken no chances.

  Alexi had adjusted his glasses, plunged one hand in his pocket, firmly grasped the briefcase in his other hand, and looked up at the apartment, guessing when his mother would open the door, when the policemen would discover his workshop, when they would be picking up the note. Would they come running out of the building? Would they make a call or two and then begin a useless search? He didn’t guess. He waited.

  For the last few days the ache in his groin had turned to real pain, not searing, screaming pain, but pain. The pain, he had been told, would grow worse. He knew what could be done to slow the process, but a cure or a remission was out of the question. Alexi was dying as his father had died, but he would not go in quiet darkness as his father had.

  The policemen were inside for less than fifteen minutes. When they came out, a plastic bag in the hand of the younger, stocky one, they did not hurry. The tall, gaunt one set the pace, steady, serious. Alexi began to walk in their direction on his side of the street. He bumped into an old woman whose head was down against the wind. He did not bother to apologize. His head was down, too, but he was watching the two men and for an instant could see their faces.

  The taller man was as pale as the snow, as white as his clothes were dark. The stocky young man held the clear plastic bag firmly as they moved toward the corner.

  He watched the two men go down into the metro and then Alexi wandered. He could have gone to the small hotel room he had rented two days earlier, but he preferred the cold air that numbed his body, forcing him from feeling to thought.

  Problems could arise. The material in his briefcase was volatile, powerful, and of only acceptable quality, though Alexi had carefully prepared the device.

  He still had time to make his call, plenty of time. He stopped at a phone and was informed that Rostnikov was not in, but that he could speak to an inspector in the Office of Special Investigation. The woman who answered next identified herself as Inspector Timofeyeva and said Rostnikov might not be back that day but was expected the following day. Alexi asked if he could make an appointment. The woman asked if she could help him.

  Alexi declined to tell her what it was about but did say that he had information on the bomber and that he was a State Security agent. “My superiors think that if Chief Inspector Rostnikov and I share our information on the bomber, we may prevent more injury to civilians.”

  “Your name?” said Elena. “Perhaps I could take the information.”

  “My name is Leo Horv,” said Alexi soberly. “I must get my information directly to Inspector Rostnikov-and only to him-as soon as possible. The fewer people who know about this, the better. There is a chance that the bomber may be getting information directly from State Security. There is also a chance that we are dealing not with an individual but with a conspiracy. If you or Inspector Rostnikov would like, I can have my superior call him back to confirm our desire to cooperate.”

  “I suggest you call in the morning,” Elena said, holding back a yawn. “I’ll leave a message that you will be calling.”

  “Thank you,” Alexi said, and hung up.

  It had been easier than he had expected. The woman had asked few questions and seemed to have something else on her mind. The real question was whether Rostnikov would accept his story, be tempted by possible evidence from State Security and the chance of conspiracy.

  Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, including Alexi Monochov, were dying, carelessly murdered, and the police could be tempted by the opportunity to catch the killers of a worthless businessman.

  The briefcase in his hand was light, much lighter than one might imagine, considering it contained enough explosives to destroy at least a huge government building or a block of small houses. The case also contained a razor, a change of socks and underwear, and a notebook on which he intended to go over his plan through most of the night, making sure he anticipated all likely problems and as many unlikely ones as possible.

  Alexi doubted he would eat. His appetite had begun leaving him months earlier, and now he felt hardly any need for food. He had lost weight, but not nearly as much as he had expected and nowhere near as much as his father had lost before he died.

  Alexi walked through snow and cold trying to focus only on what he planned to do, trying to avoid thinking about his mother and his sister. The note would explain. What had happened to his father would explain.

  He did not regret what he was about to do. Many would say that innocent people had died, but Alexi knew that there were no innocent people where he was going in the morning. There were only those who chose to ignore the horrible reality.

  Alexi had no illusions. He had told Rostnikov. He would not change the determination of the people of the world to destroy themselves. But what he could do, perhaps, was make a statement, a statement so big that it could not be ignored, a statement that would ignite debate and perhaps, just perhaps, cause people to think about what they were doing.

  At worst, his action would be a gesture of anger so great that it simply could not be ignored. For days it would be discussed around the world. At best, it would inspire others to action.

  There was absolutely no way the world could ignore the total destruction of Petrovka, the central headquarters of the Moscow police.

  EIGHT

  MARIA INSPENSKAYA INSPECTED THE CARD in her hand and looked over at the man whose photograph appeared in the corner. She double-checked the data, though she knew she had made no mistakes, and placed the card in the laminating machine in the corner of the small garage.

  It was cold in the garage, but Alexi didn’t care. He watched Maria, in her extrathick wool sweater, move from the photo machine, where she had taken his picture, to the printing machine and computer, and now, finally, to the laminating machine.

  The entire process would take about an hour. Alexi didn’t mind. He didn’t mind the cold either, and had refused Maria Inspenskaya’s offer of tea, which she drank from a mug printed with blue letters in English. Alexi’s English was barely passable, but he knew the words on the mug were THE GRATEFUL DEAD.

  Maria made strange humming sounds as she worked. She was short, probably in her fifties. Her relucent hair was brushed straight back and tied in a rubber band. Her glasses were the thickest Alexi had ever seen.

  Maria was well known among criminals and businessmen who needed expert false identification. She did not advertise and she kept no samples in her garage. Were she to be caught by the police, she would claim that her only job was to make photo identification cards for pets. She had samples of those and photographs of dogs, cats, and birds tacked to the walls. In truth, Maria disliked all animals. It wasn’t just her allergies. They consumed food humans could use. They befouled the streets. They were coddled by their owners. Maria had received nothing in her life that might reasonably be called coddling.

  Alexi had heard of her while eavesd
ropping on a conversation on Gorky Street. One man had been telling another that he could get a proper ID from a woman named Maria. He had given the other man Maria’s number, and Alexi had remembered it and written it down. That had been more than a year ago, before Alexi had made his plans. He had simply stored the information, as he had so much other data gathered in likely and unlikely places.

  At first the woman had been wary, fearing that Alexi’s call might be a police trap, but finally during their phone conversation, Maria had agreed to meet Alexi at a stand-up snack bar not far from the garage.

  He didn’t look like a policeman. Alexi was short, balding, sober, and willing to pay in American dollars far above the already high asking price. His willingness to pay so much for a card had worried Maria a bit, as did the kind of card he wanted, but she was convinced that she was dealing with a depressed, determined individual who was not an informer or a policeman.

  Alexi was well dressed, well spoken, polite. He had given her five hundred-dollar bills in advance.

  When they had reached the garage, Maria had turned on the lights and gone to a desk. She pulled out a deep drawer. Inside the drawer was a bag that could be dropped into the sewer through a hole in the wooden floor if danger threatened. She had forgotten the bag the day before-a mistake she vowed not to make again. Her mind had been on a knight’s gambit she had witnessed earlier.

  “I know I’ve got at least three,” she had said as she rummaged and Alexi stood waiting, briefcase in hand.

  At last she had come up with what she was looking for. She took Alexi’s photo, a bright light in his face as he sat on a metal bench. She told him not to smile.

  Now she was putting the finishing touches on the card, trimming the plastic lamination.

  Maria handed the card to Alexi, who examined it carefully and handed Maria an additional two hundred dollars, which she stuffed into the pocket of her pants. She had to lift several layers of sweater to reach the pocket.

  She had no idea what the punishment would be if she were ever caught, particularly if she were caught making a card like this one. Chances were good that with former clients acting as intermediaries she would be able to bribe her way out of conviction and punishment, but you could never tell. She had, however, been unable to resist all that American cash.

  Maria was accustomed to dealing with odd, nervous, cold, and ranting men. There was no type she hadn’t seen. Few of her clients were women, but the women tended to be quiet and look determined and guilty.

  The man who had just given her seven hundred dollars for less than an hour of work was one of the oddest she’d seen. She had learned her craft working as a preparer of identification cards for railway employees. When her ulcers had caused her to lose too many hours, Maria had been dismissed. It had proved the luckiest thing in her bleak life. The first false identification card had not been her idea but that of a former railway worker with whom she had become friends of a sort. He needed identification for his brother to get a job with a new American business opening a branch in Moscow. Maria had done a more than adequate but makeshift job without the proper equipment, but now she had cash hidden away and a well-equipped garage. She could afford a good private doctor to treat her ulcer, and she had a warm room and enough money to indulge in her passion, chess, which she played at her neighborhood club every day, sometimes for many hours as she and the others sipped hot tea and contemplated their moves.

  Maria’s prize possession was a trophy for a tournament victory, a team victory. The tournament had been held in Tbilisi in 1987.

  While she had been preparing the identification card for the man with little hair, she had the uneasy feeling that he was insane. She had dealt with people who seemed insane, but this one was different. Fleetingly she thought that he might be considering killing her when he had what he wanted. But seven hundred American dollars had quieted her fear, that and the small pistol in her pocket. When she had taken his money and handed him the card, Maria kept her hand in her pocket, grasping the gun.

  But the man had done nothing. He had said nothing. He pocketed the card, shifted the weight of his briefcase, and left the garage.

  When she was sure the man was gone, she turned off her machines, closed her bag of identification cards, zipped it, and hurried out, turning off the lights and locking the door behind her. If she hurried, there was a chance she could witness at least part of the game between Ivan Ivanovich Presoka and whoever might have the privilege of playing against him. The ancient Presoka played only in the mornings. He was not well enough to do more. But he was still brilliant. His hands might have a bit of a tremor, but his mind was as keen as when he had been a ten-year-old boy wonder.

  Maria didn’t give another thought to the man for whom she had just made a State Security Agency identification.

  The pile of neat dark green files was manageable, fifteen in all. It included all the information on each of the women attacked by the serial rapist. It also included several other files that were not connected to the case but, according to the computer, had sufficient similarities to be examined. They sat in Sasha’s cubicle, he on one side of the small desk, she on the other. Each took one pile. They were both tired, but for vastly different reasons. Both had been at the former church where the makeshift Jewish temple now existed. Both, along with Iosef, Zelach, Belinsky, and a few members of his congregation, had, under the direction of Porfiry Petrovich, spent five hours the night before installing a heating system. Rostnikov, who had read a book on the subject, did much of the heavier lifting. The book was badly out-of-date, but so was the system they installed.

  It had gone smoothly, and the skill of Iosef and Belinsky with tools borrowed by Rostnikov had been a key to their success. When they were finished, Rostnikov had told them that Belinsky should expect some problems, but they could be remedied. He suggested that the rabbi find some place to store the leftover sheets and scraps of metal and the various screws and joints in case they were needed later.

  It was late, and in spite of the heavy labor, they were cold when they were finished. The system was now being turned on. It didn’t look too bad, and Belinsky was already working on ways to cover and decorate the exposed metal tunnel that ran around the room.

  Iosef asked Elena if he could take her home so they could talk on the way. She agreed and they were the first to leave. They went to Iosef’s small apartment, which he shared with an actor who was touring with a new play. Elena had called her aunt, who sounded fully awake, and said she had no idea yet when she would be home. There had been something in Elena’s voice that she knew her aunt, the former procurator, would pick up. Then there had been tea. There had been talk. There had been kisses and then the cool sheet of Iosef’s narrow bed.

  The fact that he had condoms in the drawer of the little table next to the bed could have meant many things. Elena was a policewoman. She couldn’t help considering (a) there were many young women who had been in this bed, (b) he had been confident that Elena would be there and had prepared, or (c) Iosef was, in general, simply prepared and properly cautious.

  She stayed the night, and it was he who talked of marriage as he gently rubbed her nipples in the dim light he had left on when they undressed and went to bed. Elena wasn’t sure. They made love twice. First, when they went to bed. Second, when they awakened early in the morning. Both times were wonderful for Elena, but she couldn’t tell what they meant, though he proposed again.

  She wanted time to think about it. They had not known each other long, and they had shared few talks like this. She knew that the first night they met Iosef had told his mother he planned to marry Elena.

  She slept little and had no time to change her clothes before meeting Sasha at Petrovka.

  Sasha had experienced as little sleep as his partner but for quite a different reason. After they had finished the duct work at the temple, Sasha had lingered, wanting to talk, not wanting to go home, but everyone had left quickly. They were tired. It was late.

  When
he got home, Maya greeted him with a screaming baby in her arms. He looked around for his mother. She wasn’t there. Pulcharia was probably in the next room asleep, but Maya was desperately trying to soothe the crying baby. Maya looked exhausted. There was darkness under her beautiful eyes, and strands of hair had escaped the brush.

  “He has a temperature,” she said. “He is hot.”

  Sasha, still in his coat, reached over to the crying baby in his wife’s arms and touched his forehead. Very hot.

  “He is coughing,” Maya said. “I couldn’t wake Pulcharia and take him to the doctor. I didn’t know how to reach you, and I couldn’t take your mother corning over, though I would have called her if you hadn’t come soon.”

  Beneath the tone of concern for the child there was a hint of the anger he would have to face when the baby had been taken care of, anger at his being off somewhere helping Rostnikov on some church repairs.

  Still wearing his coat, Sasha went to the address book on the table near the phone. It was very late, but the baby was very sick. He called. The doctor was home and sounded quite awake.

  He was not a pediatrician, but he was Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin Leon. He was the one to whom Porfiry Petrovich’s people turned when they needed medical care, and he had given what he could, protecting them from the horrors of Moscow hospital care.

  The conversation was brief. They were to meet at a nearby hospital with which Sarah’s cousin was affiliated. He would be there in half an hour.

  One of them had to stay with Pulcharia. One of them had to take the baby. They both knew which one. Maya continued to try to soothe the child as she dressed him warmly while Sasha went back to the street in hope of finding a cab. It took him ten minutes, and he had to show his badge through the closed window when a cab finally stopped.