by Alina Adams
Sasha said, "What would you like me to do here?"
Just for fun, they'd entered the arena from the top instead of the bottom this time around. Rather than coming up through the gray tunnels, with their endless, gray rooms decorated with chewed up, green carpeting, stripped bare light bulbs, and furniture that looked as if a hoard of midgets came every night to kick it, they'd walked in above the top row of seats, so that the entire arena lay open at their feet. The view was definitely much less depressing. Seen from above, the dents in the metal chairs didn't seem quite as gloomy. You might even pretend there was a modern art pattern involved. And the ice surface itself was more visibly of Olympic quality, a white oval so gleaming and smooth it was practically blinding. Though you could still see where the barrier around it had formerly been inscribed with the Cyrillic, inspirational words, "Long Live Our Glorious Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics." Now, it was three-quarters covered with ads for McDonald's, Kit Kat, and Coca-Cola.
Sasha asked, "Please say where you would like me to go.”
Bex considered her options. In theory, all she really needed to do was check with the girls or their coaches that she had all of their elements correct and in the proper order. Of course, considering how often some skaters gave her what she could only guess were the elements to somebody else's program, it also helped if she stayed around long enough to watch them do a run-through and confirm. But, in practical terms, being at the arena during the Russian session was also a prime opportunity for Bex to follow up on Shura's profanity-laced rant and investigate whether all of Igor Marchenko's ex-countrymen felt so vitriolic about the late coach—and how they might have expressed those emotions.
Looking a few rows above the ice, Bex spotted Valeri Konstantin, the president of the Russian Figure Skating Federation. The man who she, in her more whimsical moments, liked to think of as Ferret Head. (Was it her fault that his comb-over looked like a rodent toupee? Bex thought not.)
Bex made an on-the-spot decision. She told Sasha, "Look, do me a favor. Would you take this list of elements down to the girls' coaches and confirm that I've got them all correct? I need to talk to someone for a minute."
"Do you need my translation help?"
"No, it's alright. He speaks okay English. I've interviewed him before. Besides, I think he might be more open with me if I'm alone. The questions I'm planning to ask, I don't think he'll want an audience for."
"Understood," Sasha said. He accepted Bex's binder from her, tucked it under his arm along with the pen she offered, and proceeded to march straight down to the ice to do as she'd asked. Yup, Bex really, really liked that boy.
Making sure that there was no one around who might overhear them, Bex casually yet purposefully made her way over to Valeri Konstantin. He saw her coming, but made no attempt to duck. To be honest, he appeared to be in no mood to do much of anything. The president of the most influential figure skating federation on the planet looked very tired. And not more than a little bored.
He was a rotund man, with jowls that wobbled around his neck like laundry on the line, and a square, sopping sponge of a body that was painfully squeezed into the arena's thinly padded chairs. As she studied the situation, Bex wondered how Konstantin intended to ease back out again. In addition, the weight of his ferret-like comb-over also seemed to be compressing his head deep into his neck, so that the jowls of his chin were brushing the tips of his shoulders as he gallantly fought to keep his eyes open and trained on his two best hopes for a Russian-dominated ladies' skating future.
"Hello, Mr. Konstantin," Bex offered brightly as she plopped down next to him.
"Ha," he replied.
"I'm Bex Levy. The 24/7 researcher? We've met before. I interviewed you last month for our feature on the evolution of Russia's skating program?"
"Ga," he conceded.
Bex had been meaning to politely inquire if it would be okay for her to ask him a few questions. But considering her record so far, she decided to dive right in and see if she could coax out more than random syllables.
Bex said, "Your girls are looking strong this year. Galina Semenova is so young and already she's got such potential!"
"Hmph," Konstantin said. Bex was about to try another approach when, as if he'd been slapped on the back to keep from choking, he spat out, "This girl is the best jumper in the world. Fourteen years old, and already the best in the world. Quads, here, quads, there—"
Bex wondered if there was an American alive who would have blamed her for nodding her head and solemnly observing, "Everywhere a quad-quad." Still, she decided to suppress the impulse.
"But it is the judging system that does not esteem such excellent athleticism," Konstantin continued. "It is not logical to give as many points for the good doing of a spin, which is much easier skill to perfect than the good doing of quadruple jump."
Bex asked, "A year ago, when Xenia Trubin was still competing, didn't you tell the press that it was unfair to judge an entire skating program on how many jumps a girl did, because there was more to a balanced routine than just jumps?"
"Sha," Konstantin said.
Well. That certainly went swimmingly.
At least Bex now knew that they had no discernible rapport to disturb if she went ahead and actually asked him the hard questions.
"Igor Marchenko's invitation to come to Moscow for this event was issued by the Russian Skating Federation." Bex asked, "Does that mean it came from you?"
Konstantin shrugged and said, "Ares will not come without her coach, Marchenko. We need to Ares here. She is number three in the world. Number one after Trubin and Simpson retired last year. Semenova must compete against the best, for us to convince judges she belongs among the best. When Marchenko does not want to come, we ask more nicely. Say please. Write letter. Is politics."
"I guess you must feel awful, then. Inviting Igor to come, promising he'd be safe, and then him getting killed right in your own arena!"
Konstantin turned his head to look at Bex. Judging by the expression on his face, no, the man was actually not too broken up about the developments.
"It almost sounds," Bex offered, "As if Igor was deliberately lured back to Russia to be killed."
"Ha!" They were back to the realm of one-syllable exclamations. But at least this one, Bex understood.
"You don't think that's what happened?" she pressed.
"There are many, many people who think, inside their heads, they would like to kill Igor Marchenko."
"Really?" When Bex went fishing, she'd hardly expected to yank up a shark her first cast out. "Like who?"
"Like I, for instance." Konstantin chuckled to himself.
"You?"
"I was team leader when Marchenko decide he wishes to defect. It is my job to watch the team. I do not watch Marchenko too good. This, when I return to U.S.S.R., is not too good of thing for me. The federation, they do not care how I serve with loyalty for decade before. They only care that Marchenko is defected, and country embarrassed. They punish me. Forbid me from participating in skating competitions. I cannot coach or judge or even come see any competition. They are watching me. I sit home for nearly twenty years before U.S.S.R. is over and I am allowed to return to my sport."
Bex didn't know what to say. "Marchenko did all that to you?"
"I am not only. To me and to many, many others, he did big harm. Marchenko's coach, Alexandr Troika, he is also banned from coaching after Marchenko defects. After U.S.S.R. is over, he tries to come back, also. But it is too late. He has no reputation. No name. No students. And the other athletes, boys and girls who are on World Team with Marchenko. The government is afraid he gave them ideas. Or even maybe they planned to defect together and are waiting for another chance. There are sixteen teammates of Marchenko. Two boys, two girls, three pair team, three dance. The Federation, they make big announcement. All members of World Team retiring. Together. They will to form national ice theater dance company. Very prestigious, very big honor. They
make big performance in Moscow…
Ice Theater
… And after, government takes their passports. They will to tour Soviet Union with company. Only Soviet Union. Never outside. They are prisoners, yes—that is the correct word? Prisoners. Because Marchenko ruin life for them. So you ask about Russian people who think they want to kill Igor Marchenko? I believe many, many people want to do this."
"Anyone in particular?" Bex figured as long as she was being blatant, she might as well see how far she could go.
Konstantin chuckled again. How lovely that Bex was able to bring the man such joy. It somehow made her entire life more meaningful.
"You think somebody waits twenty-eight years for Marchenko to return to Russia so they may poison him in ice arena?"
"Maybe they weren't just sitting around, waiting? Maybe they were thinking of how they could lure him."
"So you think this killer is me?"
"No!" Well, not unless you want to confess to something; then I'd be all ears. "I was just considering all the possibilities."
"You have considered Marchenko's family?"
"His family?" As far as Bex knew, Marchenko's only family was an ex-wife and a ten-year-old daughter, both of whom were back in Connecticut. If either one of them had wanted to kill him, they could have done it locally.
"Marchenko's mother and sister and brother-in-law," Konstantin said.
Oh, that family. The one he'd left behind along with his skating teammates. "Why would Igor's family want to see him dead?"
"Because, everything that was done to us in skating, was done even much worse to the family. Government took their apartment. I remember, they have three rooms for themselves, because Marchenko was star athlete. Star athlete's family receives special privileges. After, they are forced in one small room in apartment with another family. Mother is fired from job being engineer in juice factory. Juice factory is good place to work. Much juice to steal. She is given work cleaning streets. Very hard work. Sister and brother-in-law, they are dismissed from University. Shamed at Communist Party meeting in front of friends. Called traitors. Friends are afraid to speak to them. Scared they also will be dismissed from school. If my son or my brother to do this to me, I also think in my head about killing."
"Did you see any of Igor's family at the rink the morning he died?"
"I see no one."
Which, in a way, was even more suspicious. According to Bex's research, Igor had not seen his family in twenty-eight years. At first, they couldn't leave the U.S.S.R., and he couldn't travel to see them. Following perestroika, Igor still refused to set foot on Russian soil. But Bex wasn't sure why his family hadn't flown over to see him. Perhaps the unresolved negative feelings there were a bit more intense than your average family's misunderstanding. What other reason could there be for, after twenty-eight years, Igor's mother, sister, and brother-in-law not rushing to greet their prodigal son at the airport and following him around for the duration of his stay in Moscow? And, now that she thought about it, why no response from them about his death? Surely, someone in the press must have tried to contact them. Bex wondered why she hadn't thought of it herself.
"Do you know if Igor was planning to visit his family while he was in town? Or if they were going to come see him?"
"Igor Marchenko," Konstantin replied, "when he see me in arena first day of this competition, he walk right by me, like I am picture hanging on wall. I say to him, 'Igor, you do not remember your old team leader from childhood?' Igor, he turns around, he looks at me for long time, no expression on his face. And then he shrugs. He says, 'No. No, mister, I do not to remember you' and he says this in English. Not in Russian."
Bex made a mental note to ask Sasha the exact Russian translation for the phrase, "Oooh.... major burn."
But, for now, because she was apparently incapable of remembering even the English phrase for, "Back off," she continued grilling Konstantin, "Do you have any idea where I could find Igor's family? I'd really love to ask them a few questions—"
"Bex!"
She'd never heard her name hollered in an empty ice arena before. It was kind of cool. Every letter seemed to slide off a different wall, like audacious skateboarders on concrete, before slamming into each other in midair to reiterate, "Bex!"
Of course, poetic imagery aside, the disorientation did make it harder for Bex to figure out where she was being beckoned from. She had to look to the right, the left, and down at the ice before realizing that her summons was coming from the tunnel entrance on the side. Where Sasha was now standing, Bex's research binder in one hand.
And holding Amanda Reilly by the elbow with the other.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sasha looked so darn proud of himself. Bex hated herself for instinctively thinking, "Oh, damn. Why did he do that?"
She realized that Sasha thought he was doing the right thing. Only an hour ago, Bex had been insisting that she desperately needed to speak with Amanda (the words "now, now, now" may even have been bandied about). And now here Amanda was, literally in his grip, and Bex was complaining. And hesitating. But really, there were a couple of good reasons for that.
One, she hadn't finished interrogating Konstantin yet. Not that he seemed all that concerned about the potential abandonment. The federation president was too busy watching his skaters on the ice. Every time one of them missed a jump he grunted in the monosyllabic manner Bex had so recently become familiar with, suggesting that he was otherwise too occupied to care whether Bex actually finished their conversation or not. Bex did notice that, while Brittany seemed to be having the better day, Konstantin's more involved grunts were saved for his freckle-faced Galina.
Two, Bex did not appreciate Sasha drawing attention to her... oh, what the heck, let's go ahead and call it an investigation—Bex had inadvertently done so many by now, she might as well give her activities an official title—by loudly hollering her name and gesticulating wildly in Amanda's direction. Such actions didn't exactly carry the subtlety of an Agatha Christie drawing-room revelation. Or a buzz saw.
Third and most importantly, by clueing Amanda in to the fact that Bex wished to speak to her, and then giving Amanda the time it would take Bex to jog all the way down the two hundred, metal arena stairs to reach them at the side tunnel entrance, Sasha was ruining Bex's element of surprise. And Bex's element of surprise was her most powerful weapon. Primarily because she didn't really have any other ones. It's not as if she had any legal authority to question these people. Starting with the Silvana Potenza murder of a year ago, Bex's modus operandi had been to mentally sneer, "We don't need no stinkin' legal authority" and just go about blithely questioning people. Until she was told to stop. What was most strange was that, so far, no one had really told her to stop.
It was amazing how trivial it proved to get people to talk to you when you sort of, kind of, but not really implied you could get them on TV.
Of course, Bex thought ruefully as she sprinted towards Amanda and Sasha, her usual problem with Mrs. Reilly was not in getting the proud mom to start talking. It was in getting her to say anything actually useful.
"Mrs. Reilly! Hello!" The flaw in Bex's plan was that, by running, she had reached Amanda faster than if she'd just walked, but now she was also too out of breath to ask her anything of consequence.
"Bex?"
"Yes?" She had to take a deep breath between syllables.
"Why is this Russian boy holding my arm?"
"This is..." Another gasp. Bex put her hand on a nearby table to steady herself. “This is Sasha. He's working with me as a translator."
"Yes, I know. We met earlier. Do you need a translator to talk to me, Bex?"
Bex waved her hand nervously in Sasha's direction, fanning her flushed cheeks at the same time. "Please let go of Mrs. Reilly's arm, Sasha."
He promptly did as she asked. But he reminded Amanda, "Bex wishes to speak to you. Please to answer her questions," before pivoting around, giving Bex a covert wink, and walking a respect
ful distance away from their conversation. He rested his back along the opposing wall, all the while keeping his eyes exclusively on Amanda, lest she decide to bolt and Sasha be needed for the Russian version of a football tackle.
"What a strange young man," Amanda lowered her voice. "I had barely walked in the door before he was standing in front of me. I didn't even see him coming. But he told me it was imperative that you speak to me about something. I was afraid to say no. I thought he might be KGB!"
"No," Bex said lightly. "He's just TV."
The joke either flew straight over Amanda's head, or she didn't think it was much of a joke. All things considered, Bex figured she had a fifty percent chance of being right either way.
"What did you need to talk to me about, Bex?"
Bex looked around. This tunnel, while not the wacky hotbed of activity zooming around the production offices, did have television tech people coming and going, as well as Shura, who popped out of his own office every twenty minutes or so look at everybody with squinty-eyed dissatisfaction (Bex wondered if he and the Russian federation chief ever got together to grunt at each other). Not to mention that both the Russian girls and their coaches were on the ice surface barely a few feet away.
"Maybe we should go somewhere more private," Bex suggested.