Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3)

by Chester D. Campbell

  Like Omar Khan, Yuri Shumakov normally would not have been involved in this case. Homicide had been his specialty during his early years as an investigator for the prokuratura, or city prosecutor, but for some time now he had been assigned to more complex investigations involving major financial crimes.

  "He's all yours, I'm happy to say," Shumakov told the detective when they were finished. He already had twice as much work as he could handle comfortably. "Could I bum a ride?"

  "You didn't drive?"

  The investigator shook his head. "My old Zhiguli has been undergoing major surgery. The transmission sounded like a meat grinder. It should be ready if you can take me by the garage."

  Out in the hallway now it looked like a militia convention. Detective Kahn gave instructions to send the body to the morgue and assigned two officers to take the brother-in-law in for booking.

  As they drove toward the garage, the young detective complained about drawing too many assignments that were outside his field. Shumakov leaned back and gazed out the window as he listened. Random splashes of color marked flower boxes blooming beneath windows and on apartment balconies. Here it was well into May and he had been so bogged down with an unbroken string of cases that spring had passed him by almost unnoticed. There had hardly been time to view the roses, much less stop and smell them.

  "Thanks for giving me a hand on this," said Kahn. "I know you're terribly busy."

  "I was getting writer's cramp from all the reports on my desk."

  "They say old Perchik keeps loading you up with difficult cases because he's jealous of all the publicity you get."

  Yuri Shumakov had heard the rumors that Sergei Perchik, the current Minsk city prosecutor, derisively referred to him in private as "the Giant Killer." His notoriety had come following the collapse of the Soviet Union and the rise of the Commonwealth of Independent States. He had developed the case that resulted in the successful prosecution of a high-ranking KGB official, the general who had overseen the internal security apparatus in Minsk and Kiev. The officer had been found guilty of funneling state funds into a Swiss bank account and of pirating state property for sale on the black market.

  The case had won Shumakov a promotion to chief investigator. In his new position, he had taken advantage of American offers to provide training assistance to the fledgling state. After polishing up his shaky knowledge of English, he had spent a few weeks at FBI headquarters in Washington, then observed police work in several large cities across the U.S. On his return, he had been instrumental in helping to organize a crime computer network between the major cities in the commonwealth.

  When the old city prosecutor died the following year, his replacement quickly tired of hearing about the exemplary work of Chief Investigator Shumakov. He was a highly political animal who did not take kindly to anyone stealing or sharing his spotlight.

  "You listen to too many rumors, Kahn," Yuri said.

  "Ha!" The detective frowned. "I suppose you think it's just a rumor that Ivan Strelbitsky is getting ready to take us into his new empire."

  Yuri shook his head. "The man's a dolt."

  Strelbitsky was the highly-publicized, far-right nationalist whose party had won big in the election for the new Russian parliament. Dubbed "Ivan the Terrible" by the Western press, he had called for using nuclear weapons, deporting the Jews, taking back Alaska and absorbing the lost republics into a new "Russian empire." Although Yuri joked about him, what Strelbitsky represented was no small threat. After more than three years of working at independence, Belarus and the other former Soviet republics were still struggling. Unfortunately, Russia controlled such critical commodities as oil. The Russian president, a moderate, had managed to keep the nationalists at bay by courting the generals and modifying the pace of reform.

  Now there was a move under way to work out a new arrangement for the CIS, a method of binding the commonwealth states closer together. It would be an attempt to assure that none of the newly independent republics fell by the wayside. A meeting was scheduled in Minsk for July. Some of the controversial steps being proposed included a new common currency, creation of a super-cabinet that would work toward closer economic integration and a new unified military command. One suggestion that had been quickly shot down called for a commonwealth police organization. Memories of repression by the old KGB were still too fresh in most people's minds.

  The meeting was to include all the heads of state and their chief advisers. The impetus for the session had come from a "grass roots" movement. Commonwealth Coordinating Committees had been set up in every republic and had lobbied hard for the realignment, arguing that new measures were needed to bring order out of the chaos. Most of the committees appeared to be well financed and run by persuasive political operatives. Shumakov's boss, Sergei Perchik, served as chairman of the Belarus committee.

  Yuri was concerned about the state of the commonwealth, but he knew that Belarussians had faced much worse. The Great Patriotic War (known elsewhere as World War II) had devastated their land, wrecked its economy, leveled its cities and wiped out a quarter of its population. Postwar industrialization had provided a firm base for private development under the new democratic state. Yuri had marveled at the process, watching a free enterprise system actually begin to rise, albeit hesitantly, in fits and starts, from the ashes of communism's centrally planned economy. He found it little short of miraculous.

  "Miraculous." The word drifted about in his mind like a catchy refrain. His mother, God rest her soul, would likely have called it a true miracle from heaven. She had never faltered in her faith all through the years of religious oppression. But even the lighting of a thousand candles could not have brought her out of the depression she had suffered at the death of her younger son, Anatoli, in a military accident back in 1991. She had died the following year, still grieving, heartbroken that the army had not sent back his remains for a proper Christian burial.

  Yuri had felt it best that he not tell her why. The military had informed him that only bits and pieces of his brother's body had been recovered.

  "Are you planning to go by militia headquarters?" inquired Omar Khan.

  Shumakov was thankful for the interruption. His thoughts were drifting into an area that he had placed off limits, a section of his mind purposely locked and sealed like a room filled with explosive fumes that could only spark more grief.

  "No, Kahn," he said happily. "This is your case. Take it and run."

  Back at the small, cramped room with its single dusty window, where he worked amidst the clutter of a rickety desk, a filing cabinet and a table piled with newspapers, books and overstuffed folders, Shumakov found a message to call someone identified as Vadim Trishin. The name turned up no flags in his mental cardfile.

  When a man's voice answered, he spoke in a weary voice. "Vadim Trishin, please. This is Chief Investigator Shumakov." Had he held down a normal job, like an office worker or a factory hand, he would already have been on his way home. He hoped this call wouldn't open any new can of worms that would require immediate efforts to corral its slippery occupants. He had promised his wife he would be home for dinner this evening, hardly an everyday occurrence.

  "Yuri Shumakov?"

  "Correct."

  "Brother of Captain Anatoli Shumakov?"

  He frowned and took a deep breath before replying. "Yes, I am Captain Shumakov's brother."

  "I served in Ukraine under your brother," said Trishin. "He was a good officer, tough, but fair."

  "I appreciate your comments, Mr. Trishin. How can I be of help?"

  "I'm visiting friends here in Minsk. I live in Brest," Trishin explained. "I saw your name in our local newspaper recently and wondered if you were the Yuri Shumakov the captain had mentioned. I have some photographs I thought you might like. I took them the day before he...the day before...the accident." Mentioning it sounded painful to him. "Would it be convenient for me to drop by there in the morning?"

  Shumakov hesitated, twisting his face i
nto a frown. He pulled off his glasses and tapped them on the desk. How could you explain to some total stranger that you loved your brother and you felt enormous pride at his achievements as a soldier, but that bringing back memories of Anatoli and his tragic death would be like pouring alcohol on raw flesh? Extremely tormenting. Something he did not need. Of course, he couldn't explain it, and so he said, "Sure. How about nine?"

  "Fine. See you then."

  Surprisingly, Yuri made it home on time for dinner. The apartment was unusually quiet as his two teenage sons were visiting with their mother's younger brother, a former star center forward who had played in the World Cup tournament not too long ago. The older boy, Petr, had visions of following in his uncle's footsteps. Yuri didn't want to dampen his enthusiasm, but he wasn't sure the youth had made the necessary commitment to reach that level of achievement.

  Larisa detected an undercurrent of tension in her husband the moment he arrived home. The excessive demands of his job in recent months had left him moody at times, but tonight he appeared distracted, like his mind was off somewhere in space. He usually stopped to give her a kiss and a smile, though it was often a weary one. Tonight he walked right past her with only a lifeless, "Dinner ready?" As if she were a waitress or some hired babushka who cooked meals. Actually she was a nurse and worked a full day the same as he.

  "Why the dark mood?" she asked as they sat down at the fold-out table in the livingroom, which doubled as a bedroom for the boys. Her fondest wish, besides having Yuri at home more often, was for a larger apartment.

  "What dark mood?"

  "No kiss, no smile. Something unusual must have happened today."

  He shrugged. "A drunk murdered his brother-in-law. I wouldn't call that unusual."

  He was a hard one to pump for information, she thought. Probably because he was in the business of asking questions, not answering them. Anyway, he was much more introspective. She was the expressive one. "Very well, if you didn't do anything worth talking about, I'll tell you about my day."

  He frowned at the beef on his plate. "Please do."

  "We had a team of American doctors who explained new developments in laser surgery. It seems they use it for nearly everything over there these days. Everything from eyes to kidney stones to gall bladders. Remember old Viktor Bobrov who lived in that horrid apartment on Surganova? We got to watch them remove his gall bladder." She stopped and looked across at Yuri, frowning. "Am I boring you?"

  "No, I love to hear about gall bladders."

  Small, childlike and disarmingly frank, Larisa had long, silky, light brown hair that she piled atop her head when in her nurse's uniform. Her soft brown eyes, pert little nose and upturned mouth gave her an angelic look, though she could be tough as a leather boot when the situation required it. She folded her arms primly. "Tell me the cause of this blue funk."

  "Blue funk?"

  "It's an American expression for the mood you're in. Something else I learned today."

  "The problem is...well, I had a call. I'm not looking forward to meeting someone in the morning."

  "Who?"

  He told her about Vadim Trishin.

  "He has pictures of your brother?"

  "Made the day before Anatoli died. I'd just as soon not be reminded."

  "Don't be silly. I'll bet they show your brother smiling, contented, pleased with himself. Just the way you'd like to remember him."

  "That explosion is a part I'd prefer to forget."

  "It's been over three years now, Yuri. Don't you think it's time to quit dodging the subject? You've got to accept his death and go on. Just enjoy the memories of how he was when he was alive."

  Yuri knew it was sound advice, but he couldn't divorce himself from the mind of a criminal investigator. He found it difficult to accept something that he could not explain. The military had never given him a satisfactory accounting of the terrible accident. Yet accidents didn't just happen. His training and experience told him that everything occurred as the result of cause and effect. Somebody pulled a trigger, somebody died. Somebody falsified records, some enterprise lost its money.

  He had pressed the Defense Ministry in Moscow for answers but got only innocuous replies with the feeble declaration that "the matter is under investigation." Then came the breakup of the old union and a period of uncertainty over the status of the military. The new government in Kiev demanded elements of the army on its soil swear allegiance to the Ukrainian state. Yuri was unable to pin down just who was now responsible. After several months, he gave up in disgust. But he wasn't happy about it, never would be until he knew the truth. He didn't believe Larisa would ever understand. She didn't think the same way he did. She had a nurse's compassion, an attitude of forgive and forget.

  11

  Vadim Trishin was not much older than his son Petr, Yuri Shumakov noted. He had entered the army at eighteen. There was an openness, an almost naive brashness that gave you a warm feeling about him.

  "I got out and came home when they insisted I become a Ukrainian soldier," he explained as he sat in the weary wooden chair beside Yuri's cluttered desk. He was dressed neatly in a business suit that looked like it had just come off the rack.

  Yuri leaned back and propped one foot on a half-open drawer. "What do you do now, Mr. Trishin?"

  "Please, call me Vadim. Last year an American company opened a joint venture in Brest to make vacuum cleaners. I went into their training program. Now I'm a salesman."

  "A salesman...like a clerk in a store?"

  Vadim grinned. "The Americans say a salesman is someone friendly and helpful. Not like our store clerks. They gave the applicants an odd.test. At a reception they had us circulate around, make as many friends as possible in fifteen minutes."

  "How did you do?"

  "When they came to me, I called off the names of fifteen people I had met. They couldn't believe it. I had learned some memory tricks from an uncle several years ago. Using mnemonics, word association. Recalling those names was a snap."

  He would probably make a super salesman, Shumakov reflected. "Well, I wish you lots of luck," he said. "How long were you in my brother's outfit?"

  "About a year and a half, I guess. I wasn't much of a soldier, but he promoted me to private first class. I thought a lot of him." Trishin took an envelope from inside his jacket, opened it and spread a few photographs across a corner of the desk. "These are some I made of the Captain."

  Yuri studied the images of the stalwart young officer in battle dress. In one he stood outside a metal building that was marked by a large banner that read "No Smoking! Munition Storage Facility."

  "Is this the building that exploded?" he asked, pointing to the picture.

  Vadim sobered for the first time. "That's it."

  "Was Anatoli very strict about the 'no smoking?' Things like that?"

  "Absolutely. Some of the guys were a little thick-headed. He pounded it into them at every turn. Nobody would have dared bring a cigarette inside the barbed wire perimeter. He even had the telephone and the radio checked for possible sparks."

  "Then what do you think caused the explosion?"

  Vadim's expression was one of obvious distress. "I'd really prefer to forget it."

  That took Yuri by surprise. In the past, he was the one who had attempted to suppress memories of that terrible event. But after his talk with Larisa last night, he had made up his mind to go after the answers he thought he deserved. "I'm sure it must have been quite traumatic."

  "I used to have nightmares. I was a guard at the gate. Even that far away, the blast flattened me. Luckily, my partner manned a machinegun in a nearby foxhole. He got my gas mask on just in time." He dragged the memories out slowly, painfully.

  "Your gas mask?"

  "They had chemical weapons stored in the building. A nerve agent, for one."

  "That probably accounts for some of their reluctance to give out any information." Yuri looked back at the photographs. Larisa was partially right. Anatoli appeared to be
smiling, though it was an odd, contemplative sort of smile. "I fought the army for months trying to learn what happened. Never got any satisfaction."

  "I'm not surprised. They were touchy over the C/B weapon contamination."

  "All they would ever tell me was it's still under investigation. As far as I know, the investigation was never finished."

  "I think you're right."

  Yuri looked up. "Why do you say that?"

  "I ran into an officer from the battalion about a year ago. He told me with all the turmoil at the time, so many leaving the service...you know, people transferred everywhere, officers dismissed, not knowing what country was in charge. They finally just closed the investigation. Sent the files to the defense headquarters in Kiev."

  Buried somewhere in a vault like the scattered remains of Anatoli and his luckless soldiers, Yuri thought. Nobody would ever know the truth. Nobody would ever bear the blame.

  "I've half a notion to demand that they re-open it," he said bitterly.

  Trishin frowned. He spoke in a hesitant voice. "It might be best for the Captain to just let it lie."

  "Why?"

  "Are you familiar with the other investigation?"

  "What other investigation?"

  The young man pondered for a moment, then said, "A few months before that exercise, an inventory showed a number of weapons were missing from our unit. Some self-serving bastard started a rumor that Captain Shumakov had been selling the stuff. Anybody who knew him knew it was ridiculous. But there was an investigation that got right nasty. Two sergeants were eventually convicted for the theft. They couldn't find anything the Captain had done wrong, but it really hurt that he'd been accused. One of the senior sergeants told me about it. Captain Shumakov was afraid it would affect his future chances for promotion."