It's not the same. There's still a difference.
“Hey, Lesko?”
“Leave me alone.”
”I didn't say anything about Bannerman. That was you. A lot of times you think it's me when it's you.”
Lesko grunted. He knew that this was probably true.
“But while I got your attention, you thought about what you're going to name the kid?”
Lesko blinked. “David. . . I'm going to be fifty-six years old when that kid comes. You think all I got on my mind is what to call it?”
Katz laughed. “How about Moose?”
Lesko didn't need this. His free hand curled into a useless fist.
“That's if it's a girl.” Katz was enjoying himself. “If it's a boy, you could—”
“You're an asshole, David.”
A sigh. “Come on, Lesko. Lighten up.”
“David. Go away.”
“What's wrong with thinking about a name?”
“First things first is why, you putz. What's first is that it gets born without me losing Elena. The second thing is that it's . . . healthy.”
He'd almost said normal.
Lesko had read some statistics about the risks of having a kid at her age. He wished he hadn't.
And even if everything worked out okay, what was he going to do with a kid? He knows a little bit about daughters, but what if it's this son Elena is so sure about? They don't even have Little League in Europe. Or Pop Warner football. The kid will probably want to play soccer all summer and go skiing all winter, and he'll have an old man who cares diddly about either sport.
“Look on the bright side,” Katz told him. “Having a kid in Europe, you probably won 't have to sit through Ice Capades again.”
Lesko dismissed this with a flick of his free hand. This time, Elena reached for it, caressed it. He glanced at her, knowing that he'd been caught. She looked away, pretending otherwise, but she couldn't hide the dimple that shows up even when she's trying not to smile.
It was another thing he liked about her. She didn't mind about Katz.
Except for one night, maybe.
It was the second or third time they made love. She had asked him to undress her because her arms were still in slings from being shot. Then she stopped him. He thought it was because he was hurting her, but he saw that she was looking around the room. She asked, in this very small voice, “Are we alone, Lesko?”
But except for that one time, Katz dìdn`t bother her. She understood that Katz was strictly in his head. A habit. Ten years of being partners. Ten years of being so close you know what the other guy is going to say before he says it. Not that he didn't wonder, in the beginning, whether he was going nuts. Or being haunted. Or whether he was just holding on to Katz because he was so lonely back then. Whatever.
The engines of the Finnair jet changed their pitch. Lesko checked Elena's seat belt to see that it was fastened but not too tight. He groped for a pillow and tried to slide it under the buckle. Elena gave an exasperated sigh. She slapped his hand with the book she was reading. Doctor Zhivago. But she used the pillow.
2
The man in the grinding vat had been caught stealing.
He knew that he was going to die. And he knew how. That knowledge had brought madness to his eyes.
That this little hair-ball was stealing came as no surprise to Kerensky. He was, after all, an Armenian. Nearest thing to a gypsy.
But this particular Armenian was more stupid than most. He had stolen from a consignment of ham and sausage that was intended for General Borovik's mother. Her name and address were written on it, plain for all to see. To Borovik's way of thinking, this could only be a deliberate insult. He had insisted that an example be made.
The question of insult aside, Borovik is extremely sentimental about his mother. For that reason alone, this man is about to become a sausage.
The Armenian lived in a basement room which he shared with several cousins. There, in addition to the missing meats, Kerensky had found nearly five kilos of caviar, sixty cartons of Kent and Marlboro cigarettes, a whole box of panty hose in many different patterns—even one with yule trees on it—and several pornographic videotapes from Germany. Also more than five hundred American dollars and a like amount in assorted other Western currencies. Also a stack of Yugoslav notes, but those were for cheating American tourists who did not know a dinar from a ruble.
If the Armenian had stolen from some other consignment, Kerensky might only have had him beaten, his trade goods and hard currency confiscated, and perhaps left swaying from a hook in the smoke room for a day or two.
That would cure him.
This last remark was made by Sasha, Kerensky's older brother.
It was several hours later, on the metro going home, when Kerensky got the joke. People thought he was crazy, he was laughing so hard.
Also it was good to hear Sasha making jokes again. It's three months since he lost both his sons. Nice boys, if you overlook a few things. Very sad. This was good tonic for Sasha.
The Armenian was naked. His arms and legs were bound with lengths of intestine. He glistened, head to toe, with pork fat. Kerensky wished that he had thought to run a skinner over the little man's head and torso to scrape off some of that body hair. Armenians all look like monkeys.
Twice now, Kerensky had touched the button that activated the grinders, watching this man thrash atop the mixture as its level sank by thirty centimeters each time. The Armenian, now exhausted, had somehow managed to hook his jaw and one shoulder over the rim of the vat. He was making cat noises. They came through his nose because a fistful of tripe had been stuffed into his mouth. He had tried to draw his body into a ball, but much of his lower half remained immersed in the pork snouts, organs, eyeballs, and animal genitalia that would soon be ground into a mustard-colored paste and then pumped into the entrails of sheep to make sausages as big as a fat woman's arm.
There is a saying which Kerensky supposed is known to every butcher in the world. And probably to every politician. It goes, “If you love sausage or the law, you must never watch either being made.”
Only three, not counting the general, would be watching this particular batch. The others were Kerensky's brothers, Sasha and Feodor, who had prepared the Armenian and hoisted him into the vat. Their stained and torn smocks gave evidence of the struggle. Sasha and Feodor would serve as witnesses. They would let all the others know what was done here. Tomorrow, they would bring a sample to the Armenian's cousins and make all of them eat a mouthful.
This was Feodor's idea.
A nice touch. Borovik will like it.
Besides, Borovik needs to be shown that the Kerensky brothers are capable of disciplining their own gang members. He has still not forgotten that business with the shipment from Yekaterinburg.
Kerensky didn't know what happened, exactly. All Borovik would say was that Sasha's boys opened one of the crates which they were warned not to touch and set off a booby trap meant for possible hijackers. It ruined the whole shipment. Even killed thirty pigs.
Funny thing, though. They brought back the pigs, but not Sasha's boys. The pigs came back gutted and dressed and were sealed in a freezer. You'd think they could have cleaned the boys up while they were at it and brought them home for a proper burial.
But it was not a time to complain.
There were no other workers in the sausage section.
This was not because Kerensky had dismissed them, but because it was a Monday and only half of the usual number had bothered to appear for their shift. Those who had, had put in their customary three-hour day and then slipped off to a bathhouse where they would spend the afternoon drinking beer and eating salt fish as a cure for their hangovers.
The hangovers were a consequence of all the homebrewed concoctions they had consumed since Friday. A favorite was beer mixed with equal parts hair spray, foot deodorant, and white-lilac eau de cologne. Another was bread saturated with shoe polish and heated on a radiator until dry.
It was Sasha who told him about these recipes. At first, Kerensky thought that this was another of Sasha's jokes, but it turned out to be the truth. Also a very bad practice. Already, this year, Kerensky had lost three workers dead from alcohol poisoning, two to blindness, and six more in jail for repeated public drunkenness. Those who remained, of course, had not worked on Friday afternoon either, because that was when they stood in line for their weekly half-liter of legal vodka. But real vodka was mostly for bartering, not drinking.
Workers.
They are ten times more trouble than they are worth. Kerensky and his brothers would have been out of there two years ago, enjoying their money, eating lunch every day at good restaurants, had General Borovik not insisted that they stay on the job to keep everything looking legitimate.
Where else, asked Borovik, can you control a fleet of trucks? Where else would you have freezer vaults which are better than bank vaults for our purposes? Where else can you have ten, fifty, a hundred ex-convicts ready at the snap of your fingers?
Perhaps, thought Kerensky. But it still isn't fair. You would think that the leader of the most powerful brigade in Moscow, bigger than any two other mafias combined, should at least have a regular table at the Metropole.
As for having all those men, it's one thing to snap your fingers and quite another to hope that they're not drunk out of their minds when they show up.
Today, as it happened, quite a few of them had been brought back to work, although not to the sausage rooms. Two truckloads of pigs, nothing special about them, had arrived unexpectedly. Kerensky had to pay the police to go and scour the local banyas—bathhouses—rounding up those who were still sober enough to slaughter and scald the pigs, preferably in that order and hopefully not each other. By the sounds of the shouts and squeals now coming from the killing room, some confusion remained.
It was just as well. The noise would drown out the Armenian, who had now managed to spit out the tripe and was screaming up at the ceiling in the apparent hope that God, whom he had rediscovered in the past five minutes, would cause a power failure. A rasping buzzer sounded, as if to dash that hope.
Kerensky turned toward the sound and glanced at his watch, then nodded to Feodor, who stood nearest the barred double doors. Feodor spoke through it, listened, then shrugged in Kerensky's direction before lifting the bar and admitting a tall, slender man wearing a dark Italian suit and carrying a briefcase. Kerensky tried not to reveal his disappointment. General Borovik, it seemed, had sent Viktor Podolsk in his place.
The Armenian, however, showed no such reserve. He loosed a babbling scream of pleadings, prayers, and even flattery toward the person of Major Podolsk. His hope of redemption, it seemed, had shifted from the God of his grandparents to the mercies of the KGB.
Better to believe in God.
Kerensky smiled and nodded in the direction of the major, but he was looking past him, still hopeful that Borovik himself might be coming. That hope quickly faded when Podolsk flicked a finger .toward the door, directing that it be locked behind him.
Kerensky did not care for this one. He was from Leningrad and it showed. Effete. Excessively Westernized. Features more Nordic than Russian. His sense of humor and his grasp of irony were also Nordic, which is to say nonexistent.
The KGB talks of its new breed. This one was a good example. University-educated, technologically inclined, eats and drinks in moderation, goes to fitness clubs. This one, it is said, sits on an exercise bike reading Agatha Christie. He travels to Italy and goes sailing on yachts. He wears Italian shoes, soft like a baby's ass and with little tassels on them. How, Kerensky wondered, does such a man call himself a Socialist?
The Armenian was mewing again. The major, for the first time, noticed him. Kerensky watched as Podolsk, eyes blinking, slowly approached the mixing vat. This would be good, thought Kerensky. He signaled Feodor. Feodor had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. The effort made him fart.
Major Podolsk stiffened. The tan from Italy faded by several shades, but he seemed unable to turn away. This always amused Kerensky. It's the pig eyes that do it. No one is ever quite prepared to see his sausage ingredients looking back at him.
The major stood for a long moment, composing himself, before he turned to face Kerensky. His mouth was a straight line. Blue eyes, smooth skin, blond hair. His grandma must have spread her legs for the Nazis.
The major gestured toward the vat. “You can't be serious,” he said quietly.
Kerensky blinked to show his innocence.
“In what regard, Comrade Major?”
“This man.” Podolsk tossed his head, frowning. “You don't actually intend to grind him up.”
“Ah!” Kerensky showed that he now understood. “The general said this one and his cousins should be taught a lesson. This way, I think, leaves the strongest impression.”
Podolsk seemed slow to grasp the poetry of Kerensky's solution. The frown deepened. He seemed at a loss for words.
“And ... what then?” he asked finally. “What becomes of the, ah ... result?”
Kerensky scratched his head. He pulled a greasy clipboard from a nail. “Ah, yes,” he said, suddenly amused. “This consignment goes to a refugee camp for Azerbaijanis ”
Podolsk stared blankly. Kerensky was disappointed. To him, it was abundantly clear that an Azerbaijani might be perfectly happy to eat an Armenian, all things considered.
The KGB major, however, failed to grasp this nuance as well. He was still immersed in the fundamentals.
“You .. . intend to grind him up alivet All of him?”
The Armenian tried to speak. But his eyes rolled back in his head. He fainted.
In truth, Kerensky did have some misgivings. He was certain that the extruder would filter out those bone fragments and teeth that could not be ground to powder. An extra few kilos of meal should absorb the blood and the bowel contents, and he expected that hungry refugees would be philosophical about the odd clump of long black hair. His more immediate concern involved the grinding machinery. The gears worked sluggishly at best. They might jam. The three of them could be there into the next shift pulling the machine apart. He could tell his brothers to climb in with their electric saws, but if what's left of the Armenian is still thrashing around, they might argue whose idea this was in the first place.
“Kerensky . . .” The major shook his head slowly. “You are an even greater piece of shit than I imagined.”
The heavier man reddened. He glanced toward his two brothers, grateful that they did not seem to have heard.
Podolsk turned away, hefting his briefcase, looking for a clean surface on which to lay it. He chose the top of a cereal drum and opened the snaps. He cocked his head toward the mixing vat.
“Let that one go,” he said curtly.
Up your ass, thought Kerensky.
“You will have no time for him. The general will be satisfied that his point has been made.”
He beckoned Kerensky to the drum where he opened his briefcase and produced a file folder. He laid out three passport photographs, enlarged, several copies of each.
“These three”—he waved a hand over the photographs— “will arrive in Moscow this afternoon. They will stay five nights at the Savoy hotel before going on to St. Petersburg.”
Next he produced a single sheet of paper which detailed a tourist itinerary and another which contained brief biographical sketches.
“Read these,” he said. ”I will wait.”
Kerensky read, one eyebrow slowly rising. The woman was Swiss, not much said about her except that she was a woman of some influence. Her husband was an American, a former policeman. He looked more like a gangster. The second man, who did not in the least look Russian, was a Soviet diplomat, now based in Switzerland. Kerensky suspected that he was also KGB, but Podolsk's paper did not volunteer that detail. He did not like this.
“What do you want of me?” he asked quietly.
“Watch where they go every minut
e of the day and make note of who they see. If you can, listen to what they talk about.”
The eyebrow reached its apogee. “For this, the KGB needs Kerensky?”
“It is not a need. It is a preference.”
The heavier man grunted. “But if they suspect that they are being watched, will this man”—he touched Belkin's photograph—“not assume that my people are KGB all the same?”
Podolsk closed his eyes. He smiled, briefly, as if savoring some private joke. “More likely,” he said, “they will think that you are petty criminals. If they notice you, therefore, try to sell them things.”
“What may I sell them?”
“Anything. Just let me know what they ask for. If they seek information, offer to get it for a price. Then come and tell me what they wish to know.”
Kerensky, his lips pursed, read the itinerary and biography pages once again, hoping to find some clue to the KGB's interest in these three. All that was clear was that the general wished to distance himself from this. And if Borovik did not wish to use his own men—they were so much better at this—perhaps his interest was more personal than official.
“How will I report?” he asked.
”I, too, will be staying at the Savoy. Room sixteen. Call me every two hours except when they are in their rooms.”
Kerensky's eyebrow twitched but he kept it under control. The Savoy, he thought, is a walk of less than a minute from KGB headquarters and yet Podolsk stays at the Savoy. This is definitely not official.
“Intending no offense, Comrade Major, but I would like to speak with General Borovik on this matter.”
Podolsk stared at him. ”I am most assuredly not your comrade, Kerensky. And you have your instructions.”
He took the papers from the sausage-maker's hand and slid them into his briefcase, leaving the photographs. He walked toward the metal door. Feodor Kerensky hurried to open it. Podolsk hesitated. He turned.
“This once,” he said. “You may call and speak with General Borovik.”
Kerensky groaned inwardly. This was what he wanted. It was also what he was afraid of. Podolsk was as much as telling him that he didn't like this business either.
Bannerman's Promise Page 3