Blood and Rubles

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Rostnikov glanced at the talking man. He was skinny, wild-haired, wearing a coat too long for him and a look on his face of confident madness. He could have been thirty. He could have been fifty. He was certainly crazy.

  “What did you see?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Nazis,” the man said, looking around to be sure no Nazis were listening. “Nazis,” he repeated. “Dozens. Black pants. Brown shirts. Armbands with swastikas. They shot everyone and shouted, ‘Heil Zhirinovsky, Heil Hitler.’ They put out their hands in a Nazi salute like this, and then they all climbed into their SS armored cars and drove away. They didn’t give a damn if anyone saw them.”

  “Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “I assume Officer Popovich has your address. We will contact you.”

  “Just said ‘Heil,’” the man repeated.

  A uniformed officer came forward and led the man away.

  “Other witnesses?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Just getting them together,” said Popovich. “Owner of this shop. Owner of the car on which the bald man is lying. A few people in the crowd who claim to have heard something.”

  “All old people,” said Rostnikov, looking at the cloth covering the dead woman.

  “Yes,” said Popovich.

  “The ones with lives left recognize a mafia killing and run. The old ones seeking attention stay,” said Rostnikov. He pulled back the cloth and looked down at the face of the dead woman. Her eyes were closed. A very slight trickle of blood came from the left corner of her mouth. It was nearly dry. Rostnikov covered her again and closed his eyes for a long time.

  Finally the chief inspector opened his eyes and turned to Popovich. “What do you conclude about this event?” he asked, rubbing his eyes as if he had just awakened from a short nap.

  “Definitely mafias,” Popovich said with relief now that he was on known territory. “Or perhaps a single mafia in some kind of internal battle.”

  “Why this conclusion?” Rostnikov asked, still rubbing his eyes.

  “The dead man is covered with tattoos, which means he was probably in prison,” said Popovich. “I don’t know what the tattoos mean, but there is one that appears on both of the dead men. In the case of the man on the car, it is on his head. It is on the buttocks of the other one, the one in the street.”

  “You rolled him over and pulled down his pants?” asked Rostnikov, now looking at the sergeant with eyes rubbed red.

  “He had fallen dead on his face,” said Popovich. “His pants had slipped down. He had defecated on himself, but I could still see the eagle.”

  “What else?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Else?”

  “The eagle was carrying something in its claws. What was it?”

  “It looked like a bomb of some sort.”

  “It was a bomb,” Rostnikov said. “Did he have a weapon?”

  “The eagle?”

  “The dead man.”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to get myself a glass of tea. Would you like one?”

  “No, Chief Inspector,” said Popovich, though he would truly have welcomed something for his dry mouth.

  “Bring in the witnesses one at a time,” Rostnikov said. He moved toward the rear of the café, where there was a shining metal urn, its spigot slowly dripping tea into a saucer that had overflowed. “When you come back in, I’ll have a glass of tea poured for you.”

  Unsure of what to do, Popovich saluted and stepped back out onto the street, where he waved at the two policemen who were detaining a group of men. He held up a single finger to indicate that he wanted one of the men sent over. One of the policemen ushered a thin man across the street. The crowd, assuming that the man was a suspect, began pelting him with a few bits of glass from the broken café window, the odd stone, and a piece or two of rotten fruit. Fortunately for the man, who was the owner of the Lada, and for the policeman who escorted him, the crowd found little to throw.

  Two

  Morning Meeting

  THE GRAY WOLFHOUND ENTERED THE room and looked down at the four men seated behind the finely polished wooden table. “Reports today will be limited to direct criminal investigations in progress,” he said. “I have an important meeting with the Minister of the Interior in twenty minutes.”

  Ever since the dissolution of Communism and the Soviet Union, the Gray Wolfhound had taken to wearing a green uniform of his own design. No one seemed to know or care if this act of creative military fashion was within the realm of protocol and law. But as the four men seated behind the table all knew but would admit to few, there was a kind of free-floating law in Russia—partly the remnants of Communism, partly an attempt to establish the semblance of a democratic process, and partly the whim of whoever was willing to act as if he knew what to do. The risk of taking this step forward was that it might well destroy one in the future. The political advantages of the move, on the other hand, were potentially great.

  The Wolfhound’s uniform was, as always, perfectly pressed, presumably by his adjutant, who lived with the colonel in a small but sufficient dacha not far from Moscow. The colonel’s medals, his lone concession to the past, glittered on his chest. His mane of perfect white hair flowed back as if fashioned by a benevolent wind.

  The senior staff meeting was being held, as always, in the colonel’s office in Petrovka 38, the central headquarters of the various police districts reorganized in the last several years by an unknown Yeltsin associate. Today’s meeting was out of the ordinary due to the presence of a solidly built man seated at the end of the conference table well apart from the others. He wore a blue suit and tie and had his curly black hair cut short. He looked decidedly athletic, and his age appeared to be somewhere between forty and fifty, though it was difficult for the colonel’s staff to gauge the age of a black man. The need to do so had come up infrequently in their careers.

  At the center of the table sat Pankov, the near-dwarf who served as the colonel’s assistant. Pankov’s primary function was to appear in public at the colonel’s side, thus enhancing the image of the Wolfhound by comparison with the rumpled, unkempt, confused little Pankov.

  To Pankov’s right was Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who seemed to be taking notes on a large pad. Colonel Snitkonoy was well aware that the chief inspector was almost certainly drawing pictures of houses, people, books, flowers, statues, or even the window behind the colonel. The colonel had purposely sat the black man in the blue suit at the end of the table where he would not see such inattentive behavior.

  To Pankov’s left sat Major Gregorovich, a thick man in his late forties who survived by displaying absolute public loyalty to the Wolfhound on all issues while secretly reporting on the Office of Special Investigation to officers in other bureaus jealous of the increasing power of the Wolfhound’s small but highly successful staff. Gregorovich, who had given up wearing any uniform other than a brown business suit, still held a faint hope that if the Wolfhound ever faltered, those to whom he had passed on information would wish Gregorovich to take over the directorship. It would not simply be a reward. Gregorovich was too smart to settle for that. It would be the expedient, self-serving thing for them to do.

  “Chief Inspector,” the Wolfhound said. “Your report.”

  Rostnikov put down his pad, and though it was upside down and a dozen feet away, the Wolfhound could see that the drawing Rostnikov had been intent on was the face of a woman with billowing hair.

  “Four new investigations begun,” said Rostnikov. “Twelve ongoing, five closed with arrests.”

  “New investigations only,” the Wolfhound said, looking at the clock.

  Rostnikov seemed not to notice and went on. “Alexei Porvinovich. Owns several businesses, launders foreign money, and makes bribes to get permits. Suspected ties to several mafias, particularly the Afghan veterans. He was abducted on the street in a dark Mercedes-Benz by two men with automatic weapons. Both abductors wore ski masks. No body yet found. Wife reports ransom call. Three million America
n dollars.”

  “Three million …” Pankov said, and then shut up after a stern look from the colonel.

  “Go on, Chief Inspector,” said the Wolfhound.

  “Another victim of an attack in the Strogino area,” Rostnikov said. “Face and head crushed by pavement pieces, ribs broken, organs ruptured. This is the eleventh such killing in less than a year.”

  “If you think it is worth our attention,” the Wolfhound said, “then assign someone.”

  “I will assign Inspectors Tkach and Zelach.”

  “Fine, fine, what else?” asked the Wolfhound.

  “Liaison with tax police on information provided by paid informant who led them to a hoard of valuable artifacts. Inspectors Karpo and Timofeyeva report that sometime between the discovery of the items by the tax police and the next morning all of the articles were removed. The estimated value of the find, according to Inspector Karpo, may be in excess of one billion dollars.”

  “One bill—” Pankov started, and immediately shut up.

  “We take these cases,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. “Gentlemen, this presents the proper moment for me to introduce our guest, Mr. Craig Hamilton.”

  Rostnikov, Pankov, and Gregorovich now openly looked at the black man for the first time. Mr. Craig Hamilton looked at them, gave a small smile, and said in perfect and quite precise Russian, “It is a pleasure to meet you and an honor to be invited to your morning meeting.”

  The man learned his Russian in a good, intensive language school, thought Rostnikov.

  “Mr. Hamilton is with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the colonel. “He is here to observe our methods, help if he can in ongoing investigations, and prepare a report for his own superiors and ours. Mr. Hamilton is an attorney and an accountant with thirteen years of investigative experience. I am assigning him to you, Inspector Rostnikov.”

  Rostnikov put the finishing touches on the drawing before him and put down his pencil.

  “I will, with your approval, take the abduction myself and assign Elena Timofeyeva to the missing artifacts. Perhaps Agent Hamilton will be able to give us some assistance.”

  “I would prefer that you or Inspector Karpo handle the missing treasures,” said the Wolfhound. “Inspector Elena Timofeyeva is lacking in experience.”

  “I have taken the liberty of assigning Inspector Karpo to the street killings yesterday,” said Rostnikov.

  “Five dead,” said the Wolfhound, displaying to the FBI agent that he was fully knowledgeable about day-to-day criminal activity in his city.

  “I will supervise Inspector Timofeyeva and conduct the investigation of the abduction with the assistance and advice of Agent Hamilton,” said Rostnikov.

  “Why assign Karpo to—?” the Wolfhound began.

  “Inspector Karpo has a particular interest in the street killings,” explained Rostnikov, “and I believe he will be zealous in his investigation.”

  “Particular interest?” asked the Wolfhound.

  “A woman who was killed in the cross fire was a friend of Emil Karpo’s, a particular friend. Her name was Mathilde Verson.”

  Sasha Tkach and Arkady Zelach sat in the small, drafty flat of Dmitra Klepikova, who wore a heavy blue man’s sweater and slacks and hugged herself in a way that made Sasha wonder if she was ill. She had thin bones and was a woman who seemed to be taking the winter badly. Her skin was already dry, and her gray-white hair was cut very short. She was forty-eight years old but looked two decades older.

  Dmitra had handed each of the policemen a cup of tea and then taken a seat between them. In this intimate semicircle Zelach was not at all comfortable.

  Dmitra was the local uchastovaya. She was given her flat free of charge, for which privilege she was expected to know the neighborhood and its problems, to anticipate crimes, and to quickly identify those who had already committed crimes. Dmitra had a small desk in the corner of the room, and she rarely left her apartment. There were many people in the neighborhood, particularly old people, only too happy to come and chat in return for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Occasionally Dmitra made rounds so that she would be known around the neighborhood and given some respect—not as much as she had been given when she was a district Communist party supervisor, but sufficient respect to satisfy her.

  She had never had a visit from criminal investigators before. In fact, she had never had a visit from any uniformed patrol at all. She had always gone to the run-down 108th Police District office to deliver her reports. In her three years as an uchastovaya she had seen Lieutenant Colonel Lorin, the head of the district of more than seventy thousand residents, only twice and had never exchanged a word with him.

  “I can tell you who the local drunks are, who is likely to come home in a bad mood and beat his wife, who might break into an apartment,” Dmitra said in a very high singsong voice that began to get on Sasha’s nerves as soon as she spoke. The voice and the woman reminded him of his own mother. “But I can’t tell you with certainty who killed Oleg Makmunov.”

  “You know the dead man’s name,” said Sasha.

  “One of many. The police sometimes rousted him from doorways early in the morning. Another biscuit?”

  Zelach nodded yes and Sasha answered, “Da,” throwing his head back to get the blond hair out of his eyes. It was a boyish act, one that contributed to his attractiveness to women, who wanted either to mother him or to smother him. At least that was the way Sasha now saw things. At thirty-one he was no longer a boy and his hair was growing subtly darker. At home he had a wife, two small children, and a mother who made shopkeepers cringe.

  “The biscuits are from Poland,” Dmitra said. She held out the small plate to the two policemen, each of whom took one small vanilla biscuit. Then she whispered, “Gift from a local vendor. The truth? Between us?”

  “Between us,” Sasha said, beginning to feel quite warm in the small apartment.

  “I let her set up her table in front of the metro,” Dmitra said, leaning forward. “She gives me a tin of biscuits here, a juice there. She has a prime location. You know how it is? You know what I get paid?”

  Sasha was well aware of “how it is.” His wife, Maya, worked, and his mother, who had had her own place for a while, had moved back in with them and was now contributing most of her salary as a government clerk to the household. With two small children it was still difficult, very difficult, but Sasha had never taken a gift from a criminal or a suspect.

  “About the murdered man,” Sasha said, giving a stern glance at Zelach, who reached for another biscuit on the small plate on the table in front of them.

  “Who kills a drunk?” said Dmitra. Her shrug was a ripple of bony shoulders beneath her oversized sweater. “And especially a drunk like this Makmunov, who could barely put a few rubles together for a cheap bottle.”

  “Who?” asked Zelach, who had ignored Sasha’s glance and devoured two more biscuits.

  “Another drunk he got into a fight with,” Dmitra guessed. “A creature of the night even lower than Oleg Makmunov.”

  “A creature of the night?” asked Zelach, his cheek full.

  “Gang members wandering the streets, ready to pick a fight and a drunk’s pocket. Remember, we have no curfews any longer.”

  “A gang?” Sasha said.

  “A gang of the very young,” Dmitra said. “If they were older, they wouldn’t be using pieces of concrete and their feet. They would have knives and guns.”

  “Wouldn’t they simply be afraid to fire weapons?” asked Sasha. “Afraid to be heard?”

  “Are we friends now?” Dmitra asked, leaning forward again and speaking softly.

  “Well …” said Zelach.

  “Fellow members of the law enforcement team, then,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Sasha, looking directly at Zelach to keep him from answering.

  Dmitra sat back with her tea, comfortable in the new camaraderie she had purchased with a few biscuits. “Response time on a gunshot in this area,�
� she said, “is at least ten minutes from the time of the call, usually more like fifteen minutes. You could slaughter the entire Bolshoi Ballet on the Prospekt, quietly pick up the shell casings, and walk away singing those incomprehensible American songs. There are only one hundred and nine policemen in this district and five patrol cars. The police, I can tell you, are not anxious to go driving down a street where they might find themselves facing two or three men with submachine guns or those pistols that shoot through solid steel.”

  “Continue,” said Sasha with an encouraging smile, not his most winning smile, but certainly one that moved beyond mere politeness.

  “Whoever killed Oleg Makmunov didn’t have a gun,” she said. “And what criminal doesn’t have a gun?”

  Sasha nodded for her to go on and she did.

  “Almost any criminal today has a gun. Almost every civilian has a gun. Like Los Angeles. Only small children, at least most small children in this district, can’t afford guns … yet.”

  “So you think this murder was committed by children?” asked Zelach, reaching for the biscuits. Sasha beat him to the plate, took one, and moved it out of Zelach’s reach. He underestimated Zelach’s determination, however, and found the slouching man leaning far forward to get to the plate. Sasha put a hand on his partner’s shoulder to move him back.

  “Combined with the fact that there have been five similar killings within the past few months,” Dmitra said, “and all within two square kilometers of where we are sitting—all were drunks out late—it fits the pattern.”

  Sasha had seen bands of poorly dressed children—three, six, ten at a time—hands in their pockets, smoking, looking around insolently, daring people to get in their way, begging, demanding. Some of the children were little more than babies, six, maybe seven, years old. Now, with winter coming, these children, many without homes, would be growing more desperate, needing money for clothes or for someplace to sleep.

  “Where do you suggest we begin?” Sasha asked.

  “Neighbors,” Dmitra said confidently. “I’ll give you names of people who live on the same street where our Oleg was murdered last night. You can tell them you talked to me, that you are friends of mine.”