Belkin came to life. He looked at Elena's throat. “You bought this necklace? The amber?”
Christ! Here we go. “Yeah, Leo. This necklace.”
“Paid for how? You had rubles?”
Lesko could have told him. But that would have meant telling Elena how much he paid for it. She really liked it. Five bucks with a lot of change might have made it sound like a piece of junk. He leaned forward.
“Leo . . .” He showed his teeth, “We've been in Russia, what, five hours? So far we've been tailed by the KGB who are probably going through our suitcases while we're sitting here. We see you busting on some Kremlin guard just to make sure everyone knows you're in town. We learn that you have manipulated Elena and that both of you have suckered me. Suddenly, we just happen to run into your wicked stepfather which tells Elena that you've also suckered her. We watch you avenge your real father—so that now he can rest in peace—by burning a fucking hat. Are you sure you want to give me any shit about trading dollars into rubles?”
Belkin was not intimidated. “This exchange. Where was it made?”
”I sold my body, Leo. Up in the washroom.”
Belkin took a breath. “But not on the street,” he said, one eyebrow lifting.
For an instant, Lesko was confused. He wondered if this was Belkin's idea of snappy repartee but he saw no humor in the other man's expression.
But not on the street.
Suddenly he saw what was in Belkin's mind. It was that accident they passed. Down at the far end of GUM. A street cop flipping his crotch at a car with KGB plates. He saw it in Elena's mind as well. Only for an instant. But then she shook her head.
“The accusation includes Valentin, Leo,” she reminded him. “And he was with us except for two minutes at most.”
Lesko chose to say nothing. He rubbed his chin.
No.
No, he decided. It was too much of a stretch. Some guy was maybe beaten to death. Let's say that part's real. That was maybe the reason for that ambulance and the victim was maybe KGB. And that's if that cop's behavior meant anything more than that his shorts were too tight.
Let's say that someone did see him outside GUM with that kid, Mikhail, who just might pass for Valentin. Same size and build.
But then what?
They pick someone off the street and beat him to death just to set up Raymond Lesko? Worse, they pick one of their own? And, after setting up this impossibly elaborate frame, they blow it when one of them gets whacked in the nose?
It's ridiculous.
Except for two things. Why did the guy say it? And why did Leo's stepfather almost shit when he did?
Screw it, he decided. We're out of here.
“Can you get us on a plane tonight?” he asked Belkin.
The question, Lesko could see, came as no great surprise.
The Russian only sighed. He looked at Elena, who was glaring at him. Her expression said “Wait till I get you alone.”
“Not an airplane this late,” Belkin replied at last. “But I can get you out of Moscow. The Red Arrow to Leningrad leaves at midnight. It's a good train. You can sleep. In the morning, first thing, I'll have you on the first flight that goes west.”
Elena's lower lip came forward. A good sign, thought Lesko. A quiet pout. She's not going to fight me on this.
“Is there any reason, then,” she asked, “why we should not enjoy the rest of our meal?”
This was not so good a sign. This was a give-me-another-hour-so-I-can-wrap-you-around-my-little-finger sign.
He wondered why they still bothered with wedding vows. The Swiss still had honor and obey in theirs. No big surprise. Swiss women only got the vote about twenty years ago.
Elena was happy to say it, she said. Honor and obey. Except that when she did, Lesko 's ESP picked up this huge silent chorus of “In a pig's ass” from the packed pews behind them. Loudest of all from Katz.
But Elena saw the sense in leaving. She was talking to Belkin now, urging him to get out as well and to take Valentin with him. All six of those men, she told him, have been shamed and humiliated. Each one, as we speak, will be conjuring his personal revenge fantasy even if this Kulik should counsel patience.
Valentin nodded thoughtfully. He took a sip of wine and a mouthful of pirogi. He excused himself. Lesko knew where he was going. He would stay with the car, make sure no one tampered with it. Maybe make some calls from the lobby to see about that train and get the Savoy to have their bags ready. He did not ask Belkin's permission. Lesko appreciated that.
Carp mousse.
What the hell, thought Lesko. You only go around once.
Belkin was talking about his uncle now. The one who lived in Moscow. Leo would make a phone call, he said. His uncle Nikolai had ... a certain influence. He would see to their safety while they were still in Moscow. From Belkin's manner, Lesko gathered that the uncle was in this with him. The whole family, probably. And that their focus, maybe, had less to do with battling organized crime than with nailing stepfather Kulik.
Elena was giving Belkin a funny look. She didn't say anything. She just sighed and shook her head sadly. It was the kind of look you get, thought Lesko, when you realize you've been had.
Belkin wanted to leave. He stood up.
“Sit,” she ordered him. “We also came here to have dinner.”
She touched Lesko's thigh, patted it.
“We are perfectly safe,” she assured him. The pat said that she would explain later.
Lesko's main course, chosen for him, was a smallish entrecote awash in a cream sauce that had capers poking out of it. He hated all that shit on a steak. He looked to see what Elena was having. Her dish, Belkin explained, was a baked grouse that came encased in the original bird, feathers and all. Lesko felt better about the entrecote.
The waiter made room on the table, pushing plates and glasses aside, moving napkins. The slip of paper with the names of those six on it ended up near Lesko's wrist. He picked it up, glanced at it. The names were printed in Cyrillic. He;was.about to hand it back to Belkin, but Belkin was busy showing Elena how to get at her grouse and otherwise trying to cool her down.
Lesko closed his fist over the slip of paper.
It could wait, he decided.
He folded it into his pocket.
49
“That man was your son?” seethed the charge d'affaires who was not a diplomat. “Your son did this to you?”
They were in Kulik's new Zil. Almost new. Sostkov had learned of one that had been stored in a garage in Yekaterinburg. He'd had it stolen and then paid a bribe to have it registered in Kulik's name. It was very thoughtful of Sostkov. The memory of that gesture kept Kulik from being too hard on him. For not controlling his mouth. For as much as warning those four in the restaurant that the police were on the trail of that big ox, Lesko, and Leo's driver. Major Podolsk, one hoped, would have better command of himself.
“Stepson,” Kulik answered distantly. “He is not blood.”
“Islam makes no such distinction. He struck you. You cannot, with honor, let him live.”
”I know.”
The Zil droned on, Sostkov at the wheel, his eyes beginning to blacken.
The Sudanese touched his temples where his agal had been. It had belonged to his grandfather. New tears came to his eyes.
“He laid hands on me as well. And on my brother here. We want him first. We want him for one hour.”
The military attache who was not a soldier nodded gravely.
“We'll see.”
“One hour,” he demanded, “or our business is finished.”
Kulik bit his tongue.
He knew why they wanted the time. Five minutes to amputate the offending hand and then bind it up lest he die too quickly from loss of blood. Five minutes for the other. The rest of it to let him stare at the stumps. He wondered if Islamic law stipulated the period of contemplation.
As for their business being finished, the threat meant nothing. These two insects were
far too greedy to walk away from millions. Too tired of being poor relations of the Arabs who have the oil. Too fond of the young blond women with bare tits on Grassi's boat for whom they have developed an addiction. Bare tits and Mount Gay rum with tonic water.
Islamic law indeed.
As for settling accounts with Leo Belkin and the other two, his own humiliation ran just as deep. Ten times as deep. Little Leo had ruined him once. Tried to send him to prison. He would not get another chance.
But Kulik reminded himself that he was a patient man. A disciplined man. Never mind the skinned elbows, he told himself. Never mind the bruises that made it impossible to sit comfortably. Or the burning of his ears where Leo Belkin had slapped him. Never mind the tam-o'-shanter. It is only a hat.
At this, Kulik wanted to scream.
He had to bite his hand.
No, it was not just a hat. It was a uniform. More commanding, more intimidating than the one that had been taken from him. It said more about him than any medal.
It didn't help that he had two more exactly like it. Everyone thought that he had just the one, but he could not simply take another one out of his safe, because fifty people had seen the original burning. He couldn't kill them all.
At least there is still the golf club. But it isn't the same.
An old Russian proverb popped into his head. It goes, “In a fight, a rich man protects his face but a poor man protects his pants.” Here are three rich men who are more worried about their hats.
Perhaps, he thought, it is better to think of it that way. Keep things in perspective. Keep emotions out of it. Don't act in haste.
But Leo Belkin will die all the same.
Very soon.
Until then, no one touches him. Not Sostkov, not these Arab clowns ...
No one.
Only me.
And my golf club.
50
Kerensky's cousin, Yakov, could not stop crying.
Feodor, at least, had managed to get a grip on himself.
Kerensky had called his younger brother from a kiosk in Lubyanka Square. Told him to come at once. Take the metro. Meet him outside Detsky Mir. He waited until Feodor got there before he told him, as gently as he could, that their older brother was dead and the name of the man who had murdered him. They hugged each other, tried to comfort each other, for more than an hour. That was how much time they had to wait for Yakov to get back from the airport.
There was not much comfort to be found. What made this so hard was that Sasha had done nothing to deserve it. If he had been shot during a hijacking or ambushed by another Brigade, that would have been bearable, because that is the chance you take. But all Sasha had done was to go and keep an eye on the Belkin party when they were wandering around GUM. Somehow, they had spotted him. They decided, “This one must have been sent by Borovik. Let us teach Borovik a lesson.”
So the big one, Lesko, and the driver pulled a gun on him. They marched him into an alley and they beat him to death with the butt of the gun. They also searched his pockets and they found the photographs that Major Podolsk had given them. They left the photographs on his chest. It was their way of boasting about it. it was their way of saying to General Borovik, “This is what we think of you. You know we did it. Now let's see you prove it.”
Even the general wiped a tear when he told Kerensky about Sasha. The worst part, he said, was that they would probably get away with it. Some Jew police captain was trying to cover it up. He was probably bribed. This Lesko's wife is very rich, said Borovik, and you know how the Jews are when they smell money.
“And do you know what they're going to do now?” Borovik had asked. “These murdering bastards? They are going out to dinner. At eight o'clock they will be sitting down at Kropotkinskaya 36, stuffing their faces, mocking us, spending enough on that one meal to feed a hundred decent Russians.”
This was not the only injustice, said the general.. Although it was true that he wanted these criminals watched, he would never have sent one man against all four. That was Major Podolsk's doing. As much as anything, it was Major Podolsk's stuck-up arrogance that killed Sasha. But don't you worry, said Borovik. I'll take care of that daiquiri-sipping faggot. That's if someone, doesn't put a bullet through his head before I get the chance.
Kerensky understood his meaning. He understood every word including those not spoken. Kerensky would settle up with Podolsk. Borovik had as much as given permission. But Podolsk would have to wait in line.
Daiquiri-sipping faggot.
You see?
He knew right along that there was something off-center about that one.
Across the street from Kropotkinskaya 36 and a half block further up, a florist's delivery van sat parked, front end out,: in the service alley between two czarist-era apartment houses.
The van had been stolen that morning. In the afternoon it was driven to Sheremetyevo, where its occupants witnessed the arrival of the Belkin party. The two men, dressed as laborers, their clothing filthy, cloth caps pulled low on their brows, watched as the party from Zurich climbed into a waiting Chaika with KGB plates. They watched to see if anyone else would follow. No one did.
Staying far behind, they saw the Chaika turn off onto the Outer Ring Road. They chose not to follow, opting instead to proceed to the Savoy by the most direct route. They parked the delivery van just off Sverdlov Square, facing the Bolshoi, with the intention of watching on foot. They were walking toward the Savoy when the Chaika suddenly reappeared, squealing around the corner, making them scurry to get out of the way.
Now they saw that the driver was slowing, pointing at the Bolshoi's facade. He picked up speed and turned left. That was the last they saw of the Chaika for almost two hours. They were not concerned. The tourists, they decided, had gone sightseeing.
They were waiting, watching, when the KGB Chaika finally arrived at the Savoy amid considerable confusion. They heard a man shouting in German and they saw two women, certainly prostitutes, being ushered out through the kitchen entrance.
They went back for their stolen van. The Belkin party, they knew, would be coming out again in forty-five minutes or so to go out for dinner. But it was more like fifteen minutes.
That the Chaika then headed toward Pushkin Square confused them somewhat. It was the wrong direction entirely. Then, in the process of following it, the driver saw the reflection of his low-beam headlights on the rear of a bus. The lights were out of alignment. It would not do for the Belkin party to see those headlights too often. The driver broke off. Better, he suggested, to wait for them on Kropotkinskaya.
They are simply killing time. Doing more sightseeing. That must be why they left so early for an eight o'clock reservation. The man in the passenger seat agreed.
They had barely settled on the best place to park when the Chaika appeared. It found a place at the curb almost straight across from them. The KGB driver stayed with the car. The other three entered.
Moments later, they saw Leo Belkin reappear. Moving briskly, for some reason, he climbed back into the Chaika and just sat. Staring ahead.
Soon, in a minute or two, a big black Zil appeared. Six men in it. The Zil, too, found a place at the curb but a bit further down from the entrance. The six got out. Two seemed to be Arabs. One looked like a Scot. They entered the restaurant.
“Look,” said the driver of the van.
His companion followed his eyes to the Chaika. Leo Belkin, he saw, had ducked low in his seat. He was straightening again. Clearly, he had not wanted to be seen by those in the Zil.
Both men climbed out of the Chaika. There was a conference. Now the driver went loping across to the Berioska shop. Belkin called a name, stopping him. The name was “Valentin.” Belkin held up two fingers. The younger man nodded and went on.
“What do we know about Valentin?” asked the driver of the van.
A shrug. “He's KGB. Belkin trusts him. Otherwise, nothing.”
This man's accent was American.
Minut
es later, the young officer came out with a bag, the necks of two bottles showing, and brought it to Leo Belkin. Belkin had been pacing the sidewalk.
“It's wine, probably Georgian,” said the passenger. “I piss better wine than the Russians make.”
An injustice, thought the driver, but he was tired of arguing. He watched as Belkin refused the bag and cocked his
head toward the restaurant. He seemed to be saying, “No, I changed my mind. You come in and help us drink it.”
The men in the van sat back. They sipped instant coffee from a thermos. About thirty minutes passed. Suddenly, the door of the restaurant was thrown open. The six men from the Zil came out. They seemed agitated, in disarray. They headed for the Zil. The doorman came out behind them. The driver of the van assumed that it was to tell them, three of them at least, that they forgot their hats. But he didn't. He merely stood watching them, hands on hips, looking satisfied for some reason.
“What's all that about, you think?” asked the driver. His accent was Austrian.
A shrug. “Maybe Lesko farted.”
The Austrian chuckled. The American didn't smile.
“Take a picture,” he said.
The Austrian groped for the autofocus camera that he'd left behind his seat. He set the zoom. Waldo reached in front of him and pressed the horn. A quick series of staccato bleats.
The use of a car horn is illegal in Moscow. Except in emergency. The sound will always cause heads to turn. As expected, the six men glanced in their direction, not sure of the source.
“Now,” said the American.
The camera clicked and whirred.
“Why are we doing this?” asked the driver.
”I don't know. Get the license plate.”
The camera clicked again.
“If you wanted a name and address, could you get it?”
”A name to go with the Zil?”
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