Vasily and Lia found a phone in a small all-purpose grocery that sold Coca-Cola. The old woman who ran the store eyed them suspiciously but backed off when Vasily asked her pointedly what she was looking at and offered to show her much more if she was really interested.
Sonia’s phone rang eight times before someone picked it up.
“Sonia?” Vasily said.
A long pause and a woman’s voice, “She’s not in. She had to go out to pick up some flowers for tomorrow.”
“Who are you?” Vasily demanded.
“Mrs. Barakov, across the hall. Wait, I think I hear her coming in downstairs.”
The line went silent as Vasily waited, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and drained what was left of his Coke.
“Hello!” he shouted after ten seconds. “Where the hell …”
And then it dawned on him. He looked at the phone, let out a yowl of pain that made Lia turn to him from a stack of canned fruit she was examining, and brought a frightened gasp from the old woman who ran the little store.
Vasily hung up the phone and turned to Lia.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“I just-” she began but he didn’t let her finish. He pushed her toward the door.
At the door, Vasily turned to the trembling woman behind the counter.
“Old woman,” he said, “in a few minutes men will be here looking for us. You tell them I am a tall, dark and fat man. You do not tell them about her. You tell them any more and I will be back to rip out your nostrils and scream into your skull.”
Outside, Vasily looked one way and then the other.
“What’s going on?” Lia asked.
“They got Sonia. They probably got my father.” Vasily was crying with rage. He stamped his foot on the ground. “I let them have time to trace the call. We have to hurry. We have to hurry. We have to do it now. Tonight.”
The drive to Morchov’s dacha in Zhukovka took Karpo and Yuri thirty minutes. Karpo drove down Kalinin Prospekt, turned left at the arch commemorating the defeat of Napoleon, and displayed the pass that allowed them to drive in the fast lane of the highway. They said nothing as they passed row after row of housing developments, developments that looked just a bit cleaner as they moved farther away from the city. Twenty minutes from the time they left the center of Moscow, they were in the middle of a forest. Police sentry boxes came more frequently now, and many of the license plates began with GAL and ended with four letters, signaling to citizens that the KGB were inside each vehicle watching, protecting the nearby elite. Karpo knew that these men were not here to remain hidden. They were here to warn off those who were not welcome, the curious and the unwary travelers.
Karpo was stopped once on the way to Morchov’s dacha. He identified himself to the KGB man just at the turnoff to the dacha and said that he had an appointment with the representative.
“We weren’t informed,” the man said.
“I suggest you call Comrade Morchov to confirm,” said Karpo. “He may simply have had other things on his mind.”
The KGB man checked his identification, glanced suspiciously at Yuri, and motioned for them to pass. There was no car on the path in front of the wooden house. Karpo parked and got out. Yuri did the same, and they walked to the front door.
Karpo knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. No answer. He tried the door, and it opened.
Once inside they heard a voice, a deep, even voice. The policeman and the boy moved toward the voice, through the doorway, and into a large, bright room with modern Scandinavian furniture. Sitting in one chair was Jalna Morchov, a gun in her hand. Across from her sat Andrei Morchov.
Morchov looked up at the intruders. His expression revealed nothing.
“You are not welcome here,” he said. “You will turn around and leave immediately.”
Karpo and Yuri stopped in the doorway.
“No!” cried Jalna. “No more orders. You can’t give orders. You are a dead man. Dead men don’t give orders.”
“Jalna,” Morchov said reasonably, “if you were going to do it, you would have done it by now.”
In response, Jalna fired. The bullet ruined Andrei Morchov’s new suit as it entered just below his right shoulder. Morchov jerked back in pain, bit his lower lip, and then sat upright again.
“I was wrong,” Morchov said. He turned to Karpo and Yuri. “You might as well sit down.” Then to Jalna. “If you plan to shoot me again, I would appreciate your giving me some notice. I do not like surprises.”
Jalna held the pistol tightly, still aimed in the general direction of her father. Though he was the one who had been shot, she was the one who seemed to be in shock.
“Jalna,” Yuri said.
“I’ve got to do it now,” she said.
“No,” said Yuri.
“I think she’s right,” said Morchov.
“We can’t,” Yuri said.
“Perhaps we can reach some manner of compromise,” Karpo suggested.
“I don’t see how,” said Morchov. “What options have I? You know the law, Comrade. A member of the Politburo has just been intentionally shot.”
“She’s your daughter,” Yuri said.
“Inspector, is that a legal consideration?” Morchov asked, wincing. The blood was pulsing from the wound.
“No,” said Karpo.
“Do you believe in circumventing the law, Comrade?” Morchov asked.
“Stop it!” screamed Jalna. “You are always so sure, so reasonable. Aren’t you in pain? Aren’t you worried about dying?”
“I have lived by reason and argument,” Morchov said reasonably. “I see no reason because death is facing me to abandon what I have lived by. You understand me, don’t you, Inspector?”
“I understand,” said Karpo.
He stepped forward and held his hand out to Jalna. She hesitated for only an instant and then handed the weapon to the policeman.
Yuri moved quickly to the weeping girl and took her in his arms. Morchov sat watching.
“Where is the phone?” Karpo asked.
“In the room you came through,” answered Morchov. “Near the door to the bedroom on the left. There is a medical unit in town no more than ten minutes away.”
Karpo moved quickly, found the phone, and called for an ambulance before moving back into the bright dining room. No one spoke. No one had anything to say. Karpo found a clean towel and attempted to stop the bleeding. The wound was certainly painful if not serious, at least not serious if the bleeding was soon stopped.
The ambulance arrived within five minutes. Karpo handed the gun to Morchov and went to the door to let the driver and accompanying doctor in. Behind them were the two KGB men who had stopped Karpo and Yuri on the road outside.
“Where?” the doctor, a thin, nervous woman said.
Karpo led her and the driver into the room where Morchov lay. In the corner, Jalna and Yuri stood watching, waiting.
“What happened?” the KGB man asked.
The driver and doctor were helping Morchov to his feet.
“I …” Jalna began.
“I shot myself,” Morchov said. “I was putting my pistol away and it went off. I’d prefer to keep this as quiet as possible. I have a cabinet meeting in two days.”
The KGB man said nothing but continued to eye Karpo with suspicion.
Karpo moved with the nurse and driver toward the door while the KGB men stepped toward Jalna and Yuri to question them.
“I can do without a scandal,” Morchov said.
“And that is the only reason?” asked Karpo.
“What other reason might there be?” asked Morchov.
“He must be left alone,” the doctor said. “He’s lost quite a bit of blood.”
“I would like my daughter and her friend to accompany me if they wish,” Morchov said, looking at the two KGB men huddled over his daughter and Yuri. Jalna’s eyes met her father’s.
“Yes,” she said.
The KGB me
n hesitated for an instant, and Karpo stepped back to let the boy and girl pass.
THIRTEEN
Less than six minutes after Vasily Kotsis hung up the receiver in the small grocery beyond the Outer Ring, the first car containing KGB men arrived. There were two men inside, both in dark blue suits, both quite solemn, and both carrying weapons when they stepped out.
The old woman watching from the window was named Bella Vitz. Because her ankles were always swollen, Bella spent most of her days in the window of the store. Her customers, all local farmers and the people who worked for farmers, took their merchandise, brought it to her, and she collected. Bella was known throughout the community as the Queen of England because she claimed to be related to the British royal family in some strange way she would gladly relate.
“I’m a loyal Soviet citizen,” she would begin. “And I’m ashamed to admit this, but I am a second cousin to the British Queen Elizabeth.”
As a member of a royal family, Bella had lofty opinions on many matters. At the moment, watching the armed men get out of the car and approach her shop, Bella had opinions about weapons. Everyone seemed to have a gun now. People were shooting people like American cowboys. She heard about it, even read about it with greater frequency in Pravda. That crazy young man who threatened her. He had a gun. These men, obviously KGB, had guns. She knew five farmers within six miles who had guns.
The two KGB men with the guns came through the doorway carefully, like in a movie Bella saw years ago. The first one had his gun high, in two hands. The second one crouched low. One aimed his gun to the left. The other to the right.
“He’s gone,” said Bella, sitting as erect as she could upon her high-backed chair and pulling her sweater around her.
The two men stepped in cautiously, and the shorter of the two spoke.
“The person who made the phone call?” he asked.
“Gone. There was a girl with him. Chinese. Tatar. Who knows?” said Bella.
“Where did they go?”
Now the men were inside, and another car was arriving outside. There were five men in this one. Three of them, she could see when they got out, were in uniform. All of them were carrying weapons.
“He said he would tear off my ear and eat my brain if I told you,” she said. “He was just trying to frighten me. People like that don’t have time to go back and kill everyone they meet.”
The five new men rushed in now with guns waving. One of the new ones not wearing a uniform stepped forward, and the man who had been talking to Bella moved off.
“Where is he?” the new man said.
“They,” she corrected. “A young man and a girl. The young man’s name is Vasily. I heard the girl call him that. He had bushy yellow hair and crazy eyes and was wearing American jeans and a gray jacket made out of … who knows?”
Bella watched all the men scrambling around her store and outside. She wondered if any of them would buy anything.
“Where are they?”
“Who knows?” said Bella. “I’ve got some thoughts.”
“Share them,” said the new KGB man, who had a rather large Rumanian-looking nose.
“I’m a loyal citizen of the Soviet Union,” she said. “And I am ashamed to admit it, but I am second cousin to the Queen of England.”
“What did she look like?” the man asked as the first duo who had entered Bella’s shop returned and gave the new leader a negative nod.
And more KGB men arrived. A small truck screeched up in front of the store with eight armed and uniformed men in back. They jumped out.
“She has a round German face. Very sad, very dignified,” said Bella. “People say there is a resemblance.”
“Not the Queen of England,” the man said. “The girl who was with the young man who made the phone call.”
“Chinese,” said Bella with a sigh. “They said they would fry my intestines and give my liver to the crows if I told about them.”
“You are a loyal citizen, Comrade …”
“Vitz,” she said. “Yes, I am loyal, as was my husband, who worked as a gardener for four years once on a dacha owned by one of Brezhnev’s deputies. I am loyal but I am, unfortunately, tainted with royal blood.”
The store was swarming with clomping, nodding men with guns. Some were at the phone in the back; others were climbing the steps to her room. Some were still outside. And yet a new leader emerged to stand next to the man with the nose who had been talking to Bella.
“You said you have some thoughts,” the KGB man with the nose said.
“Too many guns,” said Bella, nodding her head wisely. “In England, the police do not have guns.”
“They do now,” the latest KGB man corrected her.
“Terrible,” said Bella.
“Do you have any thoughts about where this Vasily and the girl might be?” the KGB man with the nose said with infinite patience.
“Yes,” said Bella, watching one of the young uniformed men fingering a box of crackers.
“Would you share that information with us?”
“The old Chustoy farm,” said Bella. “Three miles north on this road, turn right just past a broken tree, and it’s a few hundred yards. Siminov, who has a farm not far from there, saw a city bus drive into the Chustoy place on Monday. That’s where I think they are.”
The KGB man in charge shouted an order, and seconds later the store and the driveway in front of it were empty. They had purchased nothing, not even thanked her.
The world, Bella thought, is getting to be a very strange and dangerous place. Perhaps she should buy a gun.
The KGB had been just as efficient earlier that morning when Zelach called following the incident in Sonia Kotsis’s rooms. Rostnikov, Tkach, and Zelach had all explained what had taken place to the investigator in charge.
“And,” the man questioning them had said, “you believed this was all about a missing bus driver?”
“Who,” Rostnikov said, “had gotten drunk and stolen his bus.”
“And the girl was …?” the man probed.
“Someone told me she knew the driver,” said Tkach.
The KGB man smiled and shook his head in disbelief.
“I know you, Rostnikov,” he said. “You’ve stepped on too many tails. Why did you come here with guns if you thought this was just about a drunken bus driver?”
“We expected no trouble,” Rostnikov explained.
“No trouble,” Zelach added a bit too emphatically.
“I arrived first,” said Tkach. “And was surprised to hear the woman, Sonia Kotsis, confess that this case involved terrorist activity. I had asked Inspector Rostnikov to join me here. He came. She opened the door, and this man came out with a gun.”
“Officer Zelach responded instinctively and saved our lives,” said Rostnikov.
“Rostnikov,” the KGB man said, leaning forward, “you are stepping on tails again. Who is going to believe this story?”
“I’ve kept Colonel Snitkonoy informed about every step of this investigation,” Rostnikov said. “And I plan to report to him directly after leaving here.”
The KGB man sighed and told the three policemen to put their reports in writing, to make no copies, and to hand-deliver the originals to KGB headquarters at Lubyanka as soon as possible. They were then dismissed.
On the way down the stairs from the apartment, Tkach stopped.
“The flowers will die,” he said. “We should do something.”
“They will die in any case,” said Rostnikov.
“Porfiry Petrovich,” Tkach said softly, “I can’t stand thinking of them slowly dying in that cart, in that dark corner.”
“Zelach, you like flowers?” asked Rostnikov.
“I don’t know,” said Zelach as they reached the bottom of the dark stairway leading down from Sonia’s rooms.
“You are not a romantic, Zelach. You shoot well, but you are not a romantic,” said Rostnikov, stepping over to pull the flower cart out of shadows.
&nb
sp; “I’d rather shoot well,” said Zelach.
“Take flowers to your mother, Zelach,” Rostnikov said, handing a bunch to the policeman.
Tkach looked at the last six clusters of flowers on the cart.
“Let’s give them away,” Tkach suggested.
“By all means,” Rostnikov agreed, reaching over to scoop up bunches of flowers and handing them to Zelach, who took them awkwardly. Then he turned to Sasha Tkach and whispered, “You did well upstairs, Sasha. Don’t go insane on me. We have enough madmen in this country. We need more sane ones who worry about flowers.”
“I’ll be all right,” Tkach said, stepping over to the cart and looking down at it. A sheet of paper was taped to the inside of the cart, not hidden but not exposed either. Tkach picked it up, looked at it, and handed it to Rostnikov. On the paper was a list, apparently a list of things Sonia would have done that day had she lived to do them. The list read:
Market, Cheese Father Likes, any juice
Flower seller, try the Italian at five
Check distance to entrance to tomb, close enough?
Wash the yellow sweater
Rostnikov looked at Tkach.
“Inspector, the flowers are dripping on me,” said Zelach.
Rostnikov folded the note and put it into his pocket. “Then,” he said, “let’s take them out into the sun.”
When Karpo returned to Petrovka and moved to his desk, he found a bunch of flowers in a drinking glass in the corner. He looked around the office to see whose joke this might be and saw Rostnikov waving at him from beyond the glass window to his office. Karpo moved between the desks, past a woman in uniform carrying a stack of files, and into Rostnikov’s office, where the inspector sat, pen in hand, drawing something on the pad before him. Next to the pad was a bunch of flowers just like those on Karpo’s desk.
“You like the flowers, Emil Karpo?”
“I neither like nor dislike flowers, Comrade,” he said. “I understand their ritual, symbolic function for State events but find nothing personal to respond to. The time it takes to purchase and place them is time better spent on productive tasks.”
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