“As always, Paulinin, you have been vyeelyeekahlyehpnah, ‘magnificent,’” said Karpo.
“Only from you would I find such praise meaningful,” said Paulinin, looking at Zelach, who nodded, praying that they could now get out of this dungeon. “One more observation. Our friend here was slovenly, probably very slovenly. His fingernails are uneven, bitten. There are signs of old dirt under those fingernails. The trousers he was wearing were badly in need of cleaning. His socks had holes and there was a significant hole in one pocket. In the other he had accumulated four pens, three paper clips, some keys on a ring, coins, and lint. I would guess that his home and work space are a mess.”
Zelach avoided looking around the cluttered room. The word mess would be inadequate to describe what he knew and didn’t know was around him.
“Lunch Friday,” said Karpo.
“And a game of chess?”
“Certainly, a game of chess.”
“We are talking about the life of Tolstoy. We are talking about an announced major screening at the Cannes Film Festival, at festivals all over the world. We are talking about an international cast and the brightest, most creative young Russian film director. We are talking about Cinema Russia Production Company, my life.”
The man making this small speech was pacing back and forth, smoking, looking at Elena Timofeyeva and Sasha Tkach, who were seated on wooden chairs facing him.
The room was clean but smelled of smoke, stale smoke. There was a conference table, one end of which was covered with scripts, mail, and papers with an overfull ashtray nearby. The end of the table where this clutter resided served as the desk of the man who was pacing and rambling.
His name was Yuri Kriskov. Sometimes he used the v. Other times he ended his name with the older ff and became Kriskoff. It all depended on his audience. Everything depended on his audience.
Yuri Kriskov was reasonably well known. He was not quite famous. He was a movie producer. His job, at which he had been mildly successful before the fall of the Soviet Union, was now busy and lucrative. Yuri had once been a businessman with connections in the government, some of which he still retained. He was fifty-two years old, of average height and weight, with a full head of dark hair which he carefully touched up each morning to keep the gray away. Yuri had two children by his current wife, Vera, his third, who had starred in his first film, Strange Snow. Yuri also had a young mistress. The mistress was primarily for show. Yuri had almost no sex drive, a fact about which his wives had frequently complained. Yuri’s passion was reserved for movies.
“Where was I?” he asked, looking at Elena.
“The Cannes Film Festival,” she said.
“Yes, the Cannes Film Festival.”
“May we summarize what you have told us so far?” Elena asked.
“If you wish,” Yuri said, sitting at his end of the table and searching for another cigarette.
Sasha looked at his watch. They had been in this room for almost an hour and he knew that Elena would and could summarize the whole situation in a few minutes.
“You were called at home at approximately three in the morning. A man said that he had the negative of your Tolstoy film and he wanted two million American dollars for it or he would destroy the negative and kill you. You told him he was crazy and hung up. He called again and told you to go check, that he would call you back in two days. That means tomorrow?”
“I think so. I think it must. He didn’t call this morning,” said Yuri, searching for the package of cigarettes now lost somewhere under the papers on the table. “He wants the money tomorrow.”
“You got dressed,” Elena continued, “called your editor, came to your office, where your editor met you to tell you that the negative was indeed missing, that the cabinet in which it was being kept had been broken into. You then made a call and discovered that the backup negative …”
“Of inferior quality because it is a copy,” Yuri said impatiently.
“Of inferior quality,” Elena continued, “was also missing. The film cost approximately thirty-six million American dollars to make, that’s a million dollars more than The Barber of Siberia, making your film about the life of Tolstoy the most expensive movie ever made in Russia and …”
“But that’s not the point,” Yuri said, standing and pointing his cigarette at the two detectives. “It took us two years to make that movie. The world expects it, awaits it. Our film industry is trying to earn worldwide respect. If we don’t have the film, and quickly, our country, our government, I will be humiliated, ridiculed, laughed at. Our government doesn’t want this. I don’t want this and our backers do not want it.”
“Your backers?” said Sasha.
Yuri sat again.
“They are not important in this discussion other than the fact that they want the movie finished and shown. They want awards. I don’t think they would simply be satisfied to get their money back.”
“You can go to them for the two million,” Sasha said. “If you have to give it to the thief, we can track him or them down and get the money back.”
“Hah,” said Yuri. “And hah again. I could pay these criminals and they could destroy my negatives and murder me.”
“Why?” asked Elena. “What could they gain?”
“They could do it out of spite,” Yuri said slowly, as if explaining the situation to a backward child. “They could do it for fun. They could do it to destroy me. There are people on the streets of Moscow who would kill you if they asked you for a match and you didn’t have one.”
“Your backers are Mafia,” Sasha said.
“I did not say that,” Yuri said, backing off. “I said nothing like that, implied nothing like that. If you choose to draw such a conclusion, I cannot stop you, but think, if my backers were Mafia, I could not go to them for money to pay a … a … a negative-kidnapper. Even if they gave me the money, even if I got the negative back, they might suspect that I was doing this just to get two million dollars. They might simply think I was incompetent. They might do anything. You never know what such people will do. No, no, I cannot go to my backers for money.”
“The government might …” Sasha tried.
“No,” said Yuri, pacing again. “I called people this morning, early, before you came. The government cannot be a part of this, will not. The embarrassment—no, it is clear. The government has enough problems. It will not get involved in a possible cultural disaster. I am alone.”
He ran his right hand through his hair as he paced in anguish.
“When do they want the money?” asked Elena.
“Tomorrow. I told you. They want the money tomorrow or they will destroy the negatives and kill me, or so they say. They will call tomorrow in the morning, early, at home, and tell me what to do.”
“How are you to deliver it?” asked Sasha.
“Cash, American dollars, nothing less than hundred-dollar bills and nothing more than thousand-dollar bills. They said they will meet with me alone and will give me phone directions about where to bring the money. I’m to have it ready at my home and be prepared to move quickly. They warned me that they would know if there was anything traceable on the bills, any markings or any dyes in the bag, they would come back and kill me and my family.”
“Unfortunately, you will be unable to go to this meeting,” said Sasha.
“Of course I can’t. I don’t have the money.”
“You will tell them you have the money but you can’t go,” said Sasha. “You have a bad heart. You had a sudden attack today, angina because of all this. You will send your nephew in your place.”
“You will send your niece,” Elena said.
“Nephew would be more convincing,” said Sasha.
“Do I get a vote?” asked Yuri.
“No,” said Sasha.
The two detectives were looking at each other now and not at the confused producer.
“We will discuss it and tell you in a few hours,” said Elena. “If the thieves call before the m
orning, tell them you are getting the money together. Say nothing about your bad heart, tell them you’ll be home and waiting for their call. We will be with you. They said they will call early. We’ll be at your home at five in the morning. If the phone rings before we arrive, don’t answer it.”
“But …”
“Don’t answer it,” Sasha said.
“All right,” said Yuri, going back to his space at the end of the table. “This is a great movie, a truly great movie. They’ve stolen the life of Tolstoy. Could anything be worse for a Russian to do? What has happened to national pride?”
“We will get your negative back,” said Elena, rising.
“We’ll get it back,” echoed Sasha, rising.
“Here,” said Yuri, pushing some papers across his desk and picking something up. He moved to the seated detectives and handed two yellow cardboard rectangles to Sasha. “Tickets for tonight. The Khudozhestvenny Theater. I don’t know what the movie is.”
“Thank you,” said Sasha, pocketing the tickets.
“And now,” Elena said. “We would like a list of everyone who had access to the negative and we would like to meet them.”
“Then,” said Yuri with alarm, “they’ll know I’ve brought in the police.”
“We are not the police,” said Sasha. “We are potential investors in your next film. We represent a French production company. Gaumont. No, Canal Plus.”
“I don’t know,” said Yuri, lighting a new cigarette, his hands shaking.
“Fortunately,” said Elena, “we do.”
“The list is long,” said Yuri. “Editors, assistant editors, me, cleaning ladies. The list is long. And who knows who these people might let in? We keep the negatives locked in a cabinet in a temperature-controlled room, but we don’t do anything particular to keep people out except for the sign on the door that says Keep Out.”
“Humor us,” said Sasha. “Make the list. Take us on a tour.”
“A tour and a list,” Yuri said, shaking his head. “A list and a tour. Yesterday I was happy, ecstatic. Today I am despondent. Tomorrow I may well be dead.”
And with that they left. Yuri Kriskov or Kriskoff led the two detectives out of the room, walking in front of them, smoking nervously, and pondering his fate.
Valery Grachev pondered his next move. He did not look up at the fat, bald old man across the table who sat with his arms folded, no expression, his large lower lip pouting out. Was it a trap? The path was too open. His opponent too clever. No, he would not move his queen to check the old man’s king. He would wait. Valery moved his queen’s knight’s pawn two spaces forward.
The Central Chess Club was crowded. It usually was. This was the home of Russian chess champions. The photos of those champions lined the gray walls, lit by chandeliers hanging from the center of the room. Though there were many people, there was almost total silence, with the exception of someone moving a chair to rise or sit, or the occasional cough, throat clearing, or sneeze.
The fat man wore an incongruous red blazer. It looked new. He was probably uncomfortable but he didn’t show it. Two gangly boys with strangely colored hair played at the table next to that of Valery and the fat man. Both boys wore T-shirts. On the shirt of the boy next to Valery was the word Guts in English and the colorful picture of a full-lipped mouth open wide and a massive tongue protruding from it. The boy’s hair was red and green. His opponents T-shirt bore the words Bad Ass and depicted a woman leaning over to reveal her naked rear end. This boy’s hair was orange with white streaks. He also had a tattoo on his left biceps. It was the picture of a woman winking.
Valery had played against the boy with the tattoo several times in Timiryazevsky Park. They were even in games.
On the other side of Valery and the fat man, two women, intense, dark, maybe in their forties, wearing dreary dresses and short hair, were glaring at each other, only a few pieces remaining on their board.
Gary Kasparov, the world champion, had played here. Vladimir Kramnik, the second-ranked player in the world, played here.
The old man still had not moved. Valery should have insisted on a clock, but, if he had, the old man would probably not have accepted his challenge and Valery would be standing and watching others play. The old man was good, probably better than Valery, but the old man could make mistakes. He had already done so trading pawns at mid-board.
Valery was twenty-four. He was five-feet four-inches tall, had the build and face of a bulldog, and a passion for chess which led to the nickname he bore proudly—Kon, “the Knight.” He lived in a small apartment with his uncle, who sold used goods from a cart in a small open-air market in the rubble of a fallen building on Yauzsky Street. Valery’s salary was more than his uncle earned, and so Valery contributed a bit and had a place to live and no privacy. Soon Valery would have more than enough money to move out.
Valery was playing two games at the same time, one with the fat man, the other with Yuri Kriskov. He was not certain that he would beat the fat man, but Kriskov was a fool, a clever fool but a fool nonetheless.
The game had begun. The bulky rolls of negative were well hidden along with the gun, which he fully intended to use if Kriskov did not pay. Tomorrow he would call, make the next move. He had already anticipated that Kriskov would turn to the police, that a simple exchange would not be possible. He would change the direction of the game, make moves Kriskov could not follow. Check was close by and checkmate not far behind. Valery had an advantage his opponent did not anticipate, an advantage that would make the next move and even the entire defensive game of Yuri Kriskov known to him.
The fat man grunted. His left hand hovered over the board for an instant and then he moved his king’s knight over the pawn to the left.
Valery didn’t hesitate. Before the fat man’s hand was back across the chest of his red blazer, Valery moved his queen’s bishop across the board to a square at the left side of the board.
The fat man had made exactly the move Valery had hoped for. The game would not be quick, but the advantage definitely belonged to Valery Grachev.
Chapter Three
MIKHAIL STOLTZ WAS A VERY big, bulky man with close-cropped white hair, a bit younger than Rostnikov. He wore a blue tailored suit, a light blue button-down shirt, and a red-and-blue diagonally striped tie. His black patent-leather shoes were well polished. Stoltz, Porfiry Petrovich, and Iosef were seated on a bench in Pushkin Square outside of the McDonald’s. The meeting place was Stoltz’s idea. The rain had long stopped and the park looked as if the storm had not touched it.
Stoltz smoked a cigarette and looked at the father-and-son detectives.
“You recognize me?” Stoltz said.
“Three years ago. The Sokolniki Recreation Park,” said Rostnikov. “Senior weight-lifting competition.”
Stoltz nodded, looked at his cigarette, and said, “You easily won the bench press, but, as I recall, you couldn’t compete in some of the other events because of …”
Stoltz looked down at “legs. The day was warm and humid. Rostnikov was sweating under his lightest suit. He would prefer to be in the air-conditioned noise of McDonald’s, eating a Big Mac.
“My leg is gone,” said Rostnikov. “It is in a large bottle two floors below ground-level in Petrovka. We have an eccentric technician who collects such trophies.”
“Paulinin,” said Stoltz.
“Paulinin,” Rostnikov confirmed.
“His eccentricity and skill are known to many of us,” said Stoltz. “Your leg?”
“It has been replaced by a leg of metal and plastic,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps I can persuade it to cooperate so that I can compete in other events this year. As I recall, you won both the dead lift and the clean and jerk.”
Stoltz nodded.
Iosef tried to keep his mind on this foreplay, but his thoughts were of Elena Timofeyeva. She had agreed to marry him. He was sure she did not think it a particularly good idea, at least not a good idea for either of their careers. The Office of
Special Investigation would have three Rostnikovs. That might be one too many for Yaklovev, who, Iosef knew, was not particularly fond of him.
Iosef was a bit taller and certainly leaner than his father. His father’s hair was dark. Iosef’s was light. His father had the face of hundreds, no, thousands of Russians one sees on the street. Iosef had the look of Scandinavia. His looks were certainly the gift of his mother.
“… why he would disappear,” Stoltz was saying when Iosef managed to rejoin the conversation.
A man in a ragged coat far too warm for the weather staggered to the bench and paused, hands in his pockets. The man was bearded. His hair was a bush of dirty darkness and his eyes were red with alcohol.
Stoltz paused and looked up at the man. “What?”
“This is my bench,” the ragged man said. “I need to sleep.”
“You need to go away,” said Stoltz with irritation. “These men are the police.”
“Then,” said the man, “they should take responsibility for vacating this bench. This bench is mine. Ask anyone. This bench is mine by virtue of the law of primogeniture.”
“Do you know what that means?” asked Rostnikov, looking up.
“Of course,” the ragged man said, swaying. “Property of the father goes to the firstborn male. This bench belonged to my father. Many was the time when my mother sent me here to drag him home, if you call the hallway we lived in home.”
“We’re touched by your troubles,” said Stoltz, rising to face him. “Now go away and come back in an hour.”
The ragged man swayed, but he did not move.
“You have a name?” asked Rostnikov.
“Everyone has a name,” the ragged man said, hands still in his pockets, eyes meeting those of Stoltz, who could have lifted the filthy creature above his head and thrown him for a new park record.
“And yours is? …”
“Dovnikovich, Andrei Ivanov Dovnikovich. I used to be a teacher of Russian to people who spoke only Spanish. I had Cubans, Mexicans. I made a living. Now the Cubans don’t come anymore and the Mexicans are learning English.”
Fall of a Cosmonaut Page 5