Blood and Rubles

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I burned them.”

  “No,” Rostnikov repeated softly.

  Natalya said nothing.

  “They will cheat you, Natalya Dokorova,” said Rostnikov.

  “No one will cheat me,” she said firmly.

  “You mean if someone cheated you, you would simply tell us who it was or threaten to do so,” said Rostnikov. “If I were your accomplice and I were a criminal, I would offer you very little, far less than you expected but enough so that you would take it. I would be sure that you had no choice but to accept my offer.”

  Natalya was silent again, twirling the stem of the flower between her fingers.

  “But you see, Natalya,” Rostnikov went on, “we think that whoever might make you such an offer would be greatly miscalculating your determination, your belief in your entitlement. I believe you would turn him or her in.”

  The old woman looked at the chief inspector with clear determination.

  “Put the flower in cool water by a window facing east if possible,” said Rostnikov. “It will last longer.”

  “You are finished with me?” Natalya said with some confusion.

  Rostnikov nodded, and she stood up, clutching the stem of her flower in her right fist. Elena also stood and moved to the door.

  Rostnikov, in English, asked the FBI man something about a man named Ed McBain. What it was he asked was beyond Natalya’s limited English. Elena opened the door leading into the reception room and found herself looking at four men. For an instant she didn’t recognize them. They wore casual clothes, not the uniforms they had worn the other night.

  They all looked at her, but she did not let her eyes meet any of theirs.

  Elena closed the door and turned to Rostnikov and Hamilton, who stopped speaking and listened as she said, “Orlov and Terhekin.”

  “They were … ?” Rostnikov asked. “Back door,” said Elena. “May I ask a question?”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov, trying to move his leg into a more tolerable position.

  “Why did you give her the flower?”

  “Because she needed it,” said Rostnikov.

  EIGHT

  Night and Tides

  “IT IS BEYOND MY COMPREHENSION,” said the tall, well-built young man.

  His name was Sergei Orlov. He was a sergeant in the tax police. He had a small blond mustache that did nothing to hide his extremely boyish looks. He sat with his back straight in the chair before Rostnikov, Hamilton, and Elena Timofeyeva. His eyes met those of whoever questioned him, and he answered in a voice that was controlled and a bit high.

  At his side sat Officer Konstantin Terhekin, a member of the District 9 police department. He looked even younger than Orlov and not nearly as confident. His light blue eyes strayed from those questioning him. He was a bit on the portly side and sat not quite as rigidly as Orlov.

  “Then you and Officer Terhekin did not allow the items to be removed through the back door of the Dokorov house?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Absolutely not,” said Orlov.

  “Terhekin?”

  “Absolutely not,” Terhekin answered without looking directly at anyone across the table.

  “And you had not met each other till the night of this incident?” Rostnikov continued.

  “No,” said Orlov.

  Terhekin nodded his agreement.

  “What did you talk about that long night?”

  “Talk about?” Orlov repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “We did very little talking,” said Orlov. “I did mention that I had a brother who had been captured by the Chechens a few months ago, and he said something about being in Afghanistan.”

  “That would take a minute or two,” said Rostnikov. “The rest of the night you just stood quietly. Is that right, Officer Terhekin?”

  “Da,” said the plump young man. He changed his position slightly in the wooden chair.

  “And in the silence of the night you heard nothing inside the house. No movement. Nothing.”

  “We heard the old woman moving around,” said Orlov. “Then we smelled something burning.”

  “Burning? And you didn’t rush in to see what it might be?” asked Rostnikov.

  “It was a cold night,” said Orlov. “We assumed …”

  “Do you believe in magic?” asked Rostnikov.

  “No,” said both men.

  “In miracles?”

  “No,” said both men.

  “I confess,” said Rostnikov, shifting his chair back in the hope of restoring minimal feeling to his left leg, “I believe in something like magic. I’ve seen it performed by a shaman in Siberia. But in this case I agree with you. No miracles. Officer Timofeyeva?”

  Elena sat up just a bit straighter and looked down at her notes. Both men would normally be expected to look at the pretty, full-figured young woman across the table, but Orlov’s eyes were now riveted on the face of Chief Inspector Rostnikov.

  “Were you aware that the guards on the front door, Officers Skitishvili and Romanov, were under observation all night by a series of military police officers?” asked Elena.

  “No,” said Orlov.

  Terhekin shook his head no as well.

  “Are you married?” she asked.

  Both men answered yes.

  “Children?”

  “One boy, two years old,” said Orlov.

  “Girl, six months,” said Terhekin.

  “Do you have photographs?” Rostnikov suddenly asked.

  Both officers fished their wallets out of their pockets and handed them to Rostnikov, who showed the photos to Hamilton and Elena Timofeyeva. Then Rostnikov nudged Hamilton, who pulled out his wallet, removed a photograph, and handed it to the officers across the table. The men nodded in approval. Terhekin gave a pained smile. Wallets and photos were returned. Rostnikov nodded at Elena to continue.

  “In return for a full confession,” she said, “including details on where the stolen items can now be found, we are prepared to recommend that you both be given letters of commendation for helping to relocate and protect treasures of great value to the state. Perhaps you both had a drink of something warm offered to you and you passed out. Perhaps you noticed some small detail that helped us trace the truck.

  “If you refuse to cooperate,” Elena went on, “you will be charged with conspiracy to defraud the Russian people and the theft of government property of extremely high value. You will be dishonorably dismissed from your service, tried, and found guilty. If you do not cooperate, you will spend the rest of your lives in prison.”

  She looked up from her notes and tried not to look uncomfortable. Why had Rostnikov asked to see the photographs of the young men’s children? Elena knew enough of the system by now to know that each man would scramble within his own organization to make a deal or else they would both go to trial, insisting upon their innocence, and quite possibly get away with the crime. If, she thought, there was even a crime. As far as Elena was concerned, the treasures belonged to Natalya Dokorova.

  “I would like to confer in private with Officer Terhekin,” said Orlov.

  “Unfortunately,” said Rostnikov, “I have, as you may have noticed, a somewhat crippled leg that makes it difficult for me to move. If you would like to use the large closet in the corner or step across the room and whisper …”

  “The closet,” said Orlov, rising.

  Terhekin rose more slowly, and the two men went to the closet behind Colonel Snitkonoy’s ample desk. They closed the door.

  “Well?” asked Rostnikov, standing and holding on to the back of his chair.

  “Can you really offer them such a deal?” asked Hamilton.

  “We can offer what we wish,” answered Rostnikov. “However, I have little to deal with in exchange for the trust of criminals. So my word is good. It is my hope that a sufficient number of criminals and those in criminal investigation know this. Tell me, have you ever eaten alligator?”

  “Alligator?” asked Hamilton.

  �
��Yes,” said Rostnikov.

  “I have,” said Elena. “In Florida.”

  “Did it taste like chicken? The Americans think everything tastes like chicken,” said Rostnikov. “Rattlesnakes, alligators, iguanas.”

  “It tasted like fish,” she said.

  Rostnikov nodded and said, “I would like to taste these things—rattlesnakes, alligators, lizards. Americans eat everything.”

  “Not the heads of fish or the brains of lobsters,” said Hamilton.

  “I personally do not care for the heads of fish,” said Rostnikov. “As for the brains of lobsters, I have never had the opportunity to try them.”

  The closet door opened and the two young officers stepped out. Terhekin looked particularly pale. Orlov stood straight and determined. They took their seats, and Orlov spoke. “We have done nothing. We have nothing to say. We wish to speak to our superior officers.”

  “Terhekin, you agree?” asked Rostnikov.

  Terhekin, eyes moist, said, “Da.”

  “You will bear with me,” said Rostnikov. He opened a drawer in the desk in front of him. “I am not familiar with these new electronic devices.”

  Rostnikov pushed a button, and the machine emitted a scream of piercing terror. Hamilton reached over, pushed a button to stop the machine, and asked, “Which number?”

  “I believe it is number two,” said Rostnikov.

  Hamilton’s dark fingers danced on the keys. There was a whirring sound and then the sound of faint voices. Hamilton turned up the volume, and the five people in the room listened.

  Terhekin: They know everything.

  Orlov: They know nothing.

  Terhekin: What difference does it make? They need to blame this on someone. If the Washtub decides to blame us, then it is we who will take the blame. You heard him.

  Orlov: Bluffing.

  Terhekin: And if not, we go to prison. I’ve heard what happens to police officers who go to prison. And how do we know the old woman will give our shares to our wives?

  Orlov: She must, or we will talk. She knows that. On your salary, are you living like a man? Feeding your family enough meat?

  Terhekin (laughing bitterly): Meat?

  Orlov: If we talk, we go to jail.

  Terhekin: But the Washtub said …

  Orlov: I do not believe him, and even if I believed him and we talked, it would be the end of our hopes for wealth. Every day we see men and women growing rich by extortion, murder, theft. This is a Russia of madness. You understand? (Pause) Good.

  Everyone then heard the sound of a door opening and closing. Hamilton reached over to turn the machine off. Rostnikov nodded his thanks and pushed the drawer closed.

  “Even the toilet stalls are wired,” said Rostnikov. “Voice activated. Colonel Snitkonoy wants a full and complete record of every word spoken in this office. The colonel”—here Rostnikov turned to Hamilton—“is a great admirer of your Richard Nixon, who did the same thing. Our colonel, however, is hopeful of better results and eventually a book he can sell to the French or the Americans.”

  This was, in fact, the first Elena had heard of the hidden microphones. She began to go over in her mind all the conversations she had engaged in there. There were few, but was there anything compromising? A few weeks after she had joined the department, Major Gregorovich had strongly suggested that they work intimately together, but she had politely rejected him. Was there anything else?

  “Gentlemen,” Rostnikov said. “Do we arrest you, call the procurator’s office, and wait for trial?”

  Terhekin sat silent, looking at the floor. It was Orlov who spoke.

  “We are each given commendations?”

  “Lovely ones, complete with frames,” said Rostnikov. “Provided—”

  “A percentage of what is recovered?” asked Orlov.

  Hamilton coughed and succeeded in suppressing a laugh.

  “I am afraid that is not within my power,” said Rostnikov. “It will have to be discussed with those above me.”

  “Two trucks,” said Orlov. “The old woman made the arrangements. A garage near the Kazan church. That is all we know. You can raid all the garages near the Kazan church at the same time. We are the tax police; we do things like that all the time.”

  “We are grateful for the expert advice,” said Rostnikov. “Inspector Timofeyeva, would you ask Natalya Dokorova to return.”

  Elena hurried to the outer door, opened it, and asked the waiting old woman to return. When she entered the room, still clutching the flower, she glanced at the two young men, who were definitely not looking at her.

  “Another chair, Inspector Timofeyeva,” said Rostnikov.

  Elena brought another chair and placed it next to Orlov. The woman sat.

  “I have nothing more to say,” she said.

  “Agent Hamilton, would you like to take the next step?” Rostnikov asked, easing back into his chair.

  Hamilton, hands folded, looked at each person across from him and in a soft, firm voice said, “Last night, Natalya Dokorova approached these two officers and asked them to conspire with her to steal her brother’s collection of antiques and treasures. Insisting that she had a full legal right to her brother’s possessions, Natalya Dokorova offered them a large sum of money, perhaps pending the sale of certain items. They talked, argued, and eventually agreed, allowing the old woman to go to a public telephone to make a call to someone with whom her brother had worked in the past. While they waited for the trucks, Natalya Dokorova, possibly with the aid of one of these two men, destroyed much of the old furniture in her house. The trucks eventually came, slowly and quietly. Sergeant Orlov went to the front of the building to be sure that the two men guarding the front door harbored no thoughts of returning the visit. This was reported by the two guards there. The loading was done quickly, perhaps carelessly but quietly. It was probably just before dawn when the trucks pulled away.”

  “Natalya Dokorova,” Rostnikov said softly, his hands folded before him as well, “it is late. I am hungry. I want to see my wife and the two little girls we have taken in. Please give us the name and address of the garage, or I will have to be up all night raiding garages near the Kazan church.”

  The old woman looked angrily at the two officers who had betrayed her. She looked at her flower and flung it at Rostnikov, whose hand came up quickly to catch it. He placed it on the table before him.

  “Natalya,” Elena said gently. “Tell the chief inspector. This is a new Russia. You can get lawyers, people to help you, courts that will listen.”

  “Betrayer,” said the old woman, looking at Elena. “I promised you cooperation and you have brought me to this.”

  “I believed you were innocent,” Elena said.

  “I am guilty only of moving my own possessions from one place to another safer place,” the old woman said. “I did not feel my house was safe with all these people in uniforms yelling, threatening, watching. Not much of a crime.”

  “The address of the garage,” said Rostnikov.

  “Then I betray those who helped me,” said the old woman.

  “You simply hired them to bring trucks to your back door and haul away a large load of items,” said Hamilton. “I doubt if they had any idea of what was taking place.”

  “That’s right,” said Natalya.

  Orlov let out a deep sigh, and something that might have been a sob escaped from Terhekin. Natalya looked at Rostnikov, who was straightening the petals of the flower and ignoring the eyes of the old woman.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you, but there are two conditions.”

  “Which are?” asked Elena.

  “First, I talk to a lawyer, the best lawyer in all of Moscow,” the old woman said.

  “Second?” asked Elena.

  The old woman stood and held out her hand toward

  Rostnikov. He returned the flower. She did not know the address of the garage, but she did know the name. She gave it to the three investigators sitting across from
her.

  “Pulcharia called me a name,” screamed Sasha’s mother the moment he entered his apartment. “But I have forgiven her.”

  Maya, dark, pretty, and showing no sign of having had two babies, brushed down her hair, moved to her husband, and kissed him softly. Maya and Sasha exchanged a brief look of mutual suffering.

  “Would you like to know what she called me?” asked the wisp of a woman who was Sasha’s mother, pulling herself away from the evening news on the television. She was sitting a few feet from the set so that there could be a compromise level of volume, but the television was still loud.

  “I can think of nothing that would give me more satisfaction,” said Sasha seriously, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook near the door.

  “The sarcasm comes from his father’s side,” Lydia screamed.

  The children in the other room had learned to live with their grandmother’s shouting and snoring. They shared the bedroom with her.

  Lydia’s strident voice was a result of a deafness she refused to acknowledge. Each year it grew worse.

  The table was set for Sasha—a cold plate of something that looked like sausage, a large piece of bread, and some slices of raw cucumber and onions.

  “We have soup,” Maya said, moving to the stove in the corner and turning it on. “We ate late.”

  “Is it warm?” Sasha threw his head back to clear the hair from in front of his eyes as he sat down at the table.

  “Yes,” said Maya.

  “No need to heat it,” he responded, tearing off a piece of bread. “I have to get a few hours’ sleep. I’m replacing Zelach on a watch at midnight.”

  Maya sighed with deep resignation—her usual response to such announcements. She touched his hand.

  “What am I? A block of wood? A stuffed chicken?” Lydia asked, moving to the table to sit in front of her son.

  Maya walked immediately to turn off the television.

  “I’d say a stuffed chicken,” said Sasha. “If those are my only choices.”

  “You are not funny,” shouted Lydia. “Not funny. Like your dead father. He thought he was funny too. I watch the children all day till Maya gets home from work. I expect respect.”