After Yekaterina

by K. L. Abrahamson

  The snowdrifts had to be almost headlight high and the tires strained to keep contact with the dirt road. It was an unusual amount of snow. An inky void marked the turn to Agafya Ryabkov’s dacha. The Perseus plowed past and he squinted to make out the turn to his house. The car’s rear end slewed sideways when he turned.

  The snow lessened under the awning of barren branches and he followed the ghostly line of hoary walnut trunks, here and there pine branches bowed almost to the ground. Ahead a faint light through the dacha windows glowed like a beacon and he touched the accelerator just before the Perseus entered the clearing so that the car had enough momentum to take him up and around the house to the semi-shelter behind.

  When he turned off the engine, the metal ticked around him as the cold stole the warmth. He climbed out into frigid wind and stinging flakes and, with his collar up and head down, he waded to the front stairs and the door.

  He stepped into the aroma of onions and garlic and was immediately transported years past to the days when Annushka cooked for him—before her betrayal. Before she left him.

  Maria sat on a chair at the table, an open book in front of her—probably his. She still wore her men’s work shirt and trousers, but she’d braided her hair at the back of her head and had washed off her makeup so she looked like she could be anyone’s wife—or a cousin—certainly not a high-priced whore.

  She smiled up at him, but he looked away and took off his coat, plucking the copied file information from his coat pocket. The thought was unkind, but he resented the reminder of who and what he’d lost. Once, he’d thought he’d have a family, but like much in Fergana, it had been an empty dream.

  “I started dinner,” she said.

  He nodded and hung his coat and gun holster on their peg.

  “I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I didn’t finish cooking it.”

  That was unusual. Annushka had always cooked the meal and become furious when he wasn’t there to eat it as and when she had planned. Another nod as he crossed to his desk and thumped his newly copied file on the top. He flipped it open and Yekaterina, no longer on glossy photographic paper, started up at him. Perhaps it was fitting that the paper was dull. Apparently so was her memory to those who should remember—her family.

  “I thought you had to turn those in,” she said, coming up beside him. He could smell the fragrance of her newly washed skin. It was a memory he hadn’t realized he yearned for.

  “I did. I made copies.”

  Her perfectly arched brows rose. “Clever of you, but isn’t that breaking the rules?”

  “Probably.” He considered what Rostoff would do if he found out what Kazakov had done. But regardless of all the instructions to the contrary, he was going to continue his investigation. This was a case that needed solving. He stabbed a tack through the photo of Yekaterina and tacked it back to the log wall. The rest of it followed. Let the rest of the world see it.

  Maria started to help him, but he stopped her from handling the papers. For all intents and purposes, she was no more than another source of evidence. She had no right to touch the remains of Yekaterina and Semetai. Hell, she wasn’t even Russian.

  And just where had that bigotry come from?

  She stepped back to watch him, then went to the kitchen. “I’ll finish dinner.”

  “Don’t do it for me. I’m not hungry.” But his growling stomach called him a liar and he wondered what had brought this mood and such ugly thoughts into his head.

  Still, pots clanked and spoons clattered. Beef that he’d had in the cold box sent a luscious scent into the air as he pondered the evidence.

  How could the deaths of two teenagers on opposite sides of town relate to the death of a Chinese spy at a park in the city center? The only connection he could see between them was Yekaterina’s stepfather.

  He opened Khan’s envelope and flipped the file open. All he’d had time to review was the photo. He pulled the small sheaf of documents free and spread them on his desk. Copies of the autopsy report and photo. X-rays. Lab test results.

  He sat down to read, tuning out whatever Maria was doing in the kitchen.

  Collin Archer had been a healthy male of about thirty-five to forty, contrary to the older countenance of his face. He had been of good health, though his skeleton showed slight signs of rickets—a common enough childhood condition in poorer families in China, from what Khan said in the report. Differences in hip geometry confirmed the suspicion of Asian ancestry—probably Chinese.

  So in addition to the scarring from cosmetic surgery and the skin bleaching that covered his limbs and most of his chest and torso, there were skeletal differences that would be impossible to alter. Collin Archer was most definitely not born with the name that went with his renovated face.

  He scanned through the rest of the report, but stopped when he came to the last paragraph. On the man’s left hip, a small, unnatural flap of skin had been found that created a small pouch about an inch wide and three inches long.

  Kazakov sat back in his chair, ignoring the wonderful aromas and the sound of his piecemeal china clattering.

  A pouch like that was no accident. It was perfect for transporting something small and very, very precious. Once upon a time, traders from the east had risked their lives to bring out silkworm larva and the mulberry bush upon which they fed. Others had risked everything to bring out the source of spices and the seed. All had passed through the Fergana valley on their way to the west.

  So what was so precious these days?

  “You look very deep in thought, but dinner is ready.”

  Maria stood over him, an old blue dishcloth tucked into her trouser waist band. She brushed a stray hair off her face with a floury hand leaving a charming, pale streak on her cheek. Beyond her, Koshka was happily lapping up milk with her evening meal of crunchies. Clearly the cat and the woman had bonded.

  “Milk is not good for cats. You should not have fed it to her.” He stood and confiscated the little black cat’s treasure. She mewed piteously at him. “Look what you’ve done!” he said and rounded on Maria. “She never begged before.” Which wasn’t exactly true.

  “Perhaps because she did not know there was something better,” she said stone-faced. “What is the matter with you? You are sour as old milk and have been since you returned. I had thought you a decent sort.”

  Was he sour? He felt it—sour and angry with everything curdled inside him in frustration at this case. Why was that? He’d had difficult cases before—and why take it out on Maria and Koshka? He glanced at her, for it was about the longest speech she had made aside from answering his questions.

  “I’m no longer used to having people in my space. I don’t like it.” He ended lamely, even to his ears.

  She settled her hands on her hips so much like his ex-wife he had to look away. “It was you who brought me here—to a place of safety and peace, I thought. Do whatever you want, but I am having dinner while it’s hot.”

  She turned and left him and he heard the grate of china and the clatter of cutlery as he looked back at the file. Just why was he being this way? Maria had done nothing but make him a meal. Frustration was part of it, but only part. It was as if the whole world was getting under his skin—the job, the people. The damnable investigation that had no leads and made no sense. Why was he so damned determined to investigate in the face of this? Especially when everyone and everything seemed determined to discourage him. Even Antonov suggested that Kazakov should consider changing.

  Changing into what was the question.

  He had no idea. All he knew was that a girl in a pink fluffy sweater stared out at him whenever he closed his eyes. Her beseeching gaze seemed to suck him in so that he saw back through her to other Yekaterinas—all pleading for things to be different. A country saved. A people preserved. A life not lost in vain.

  It all sat like a heavy weight on his shoulders, but there was nothing more that he could do at the moment. The snow held him here, and in truth he
wasn’t quite sure where to go with his investigation other than keeping his appointment at the printer’s shop tomorrow.

  He shoved back from the desk and went to the table—so different than Annushka would have done. Annushka had always been in a hurry. Food was slapped on the table so that they could quickly eat and she could get back to her studies. She had been working on her graduate degree in business communications and had finished it just before their relationship had finally shattered. From what he’d heard, along with a new husband she had completed further studies at a university in Nanjing and was now a senior official in the government communications office. It felt odd to even think of her after so many years. Maria had stirred the memories up in him.

  He was not sure that he liked it.

  Maria’s table didn’t have the jar of cutlery in the center that Annushka had preferred. Instead two place settings were set complete with dishcloths folded like napkins beside each place. In the center of the table, one bowl held mashed potatoes and another a steaming savory meat gravy that made his mouth water.

  She took his plate and spooned potatoes onto it, then ladled the meat and gravy over. The room was filled with the spice of dill, garlic, and paprika. She handed him his plate and filled her own, then produced a rich red wine that he recognized as one that he had squirreled in the cupboard in another epoch when Annushka had just left. She poured two glasses, then sat looking at him.

  “A blessing? Do you know one? It is your home.”

  A blessing? When was the last time he had something to bless? He shook his head and she bowed hers and spoke swiftly in what must be her native language, then looked shyly up at him. “I thanked God for bringing you to find me. I truly did not know what I was going to do.”

  A charming woman. Almost too much so, like a trap for his feelings. Nodding, he forked up a mouthful and tasted the bouquet of onions and spices overlaid on the light char of the strips of meat, in the smoothness of the gravy that mixed perfectly with the smoothly mashed potatoes. Another forkful found its way to his mouth before he even knew he had done it.

  He felt her watching him and finally met her gaze. “Good. Very good, in fact. And I apologize for being sour as old milk. How did you do this? There was almost nothing in the house.”

  Maria shrugged. “I snooped and poked into all your secret corners and this is what I found.”

  Snooping was not something he needed in his home, though apparently he should get used to it given Rostoff’s presence this morning.

  She held up her hand at his alarm and smiled again. “Don’t fret. I kept my snooping to the kitchen and your library.” She waved at his low bookshelves beside the door and by the bed. “It was a pleasure to cook and a pleasure to read something Frau Zelinka did not require to stimulate conversation with our patrons.”

  “Apparently I had forgotten my secret supplies,” he said and sipped the red wine rich with tannins and berry. He looked at the bottle and went still. It had been bought years before at a small winery in the foothills of the mountains on the way to a resort where he and Annushka had celebrated their honeymoon and later tried to save their marriage. The bottle had been packed away against another, bigger celebration that would never come.

  It was sad, and yet Maria was the first woman who had come here since Annushka. Perhaps it was time.

  He raised his glass. “To the cook.” He clinked her glass and drank of the full-bodied memories.

  “To saviors and safety. Thank you for bringing me here,” she said and reached across to touch his wrist with her free hand.

  It was the lightest of touches, barely a glance, but an electroshock ran through him and he yanked his hand back. She might be attractive, but the last thing he needed was a woman in his life and all the drama she would bring. This woman least of all.

  Maria had gone still and watchful as if his reaction surprised her and she was not used to being surprised when her livelihood depended on reading men. Her gaze grew sad—and resigned. For her or for him?

  “Collin Archer,” he said. “When you were with him, did you ever notice anything odd about him physically?”

  She sipped her wine and shook her head. “As I told you before, he did not take his clothes off. It was strange, but not the oddest thing I’ve dealt with.”

  Picking up her fork, she began eating again, gaze averted as if she sensed things had changed between them again.

  “Did he have regular appointments?”

  She shook her head. “I would know perhaps an hour or two ahead. Sometimes it would be difficult if I was with another patron. He always insisted on me, though. Sometimes he would change his time a little. Sometimes they would reschedule my other appointment with another girl.”

  He thought about it. Clearly it was important that Archer be with Maria. The question was why. Or else this woman was not the innocent she claimed to be. Had she not truly run, but been sent to spy on him and his investigations? Telling him these things could be a strategic way to gain his trust. To gain insight into what he was doing with Manas/Weber case?

  “Tell me about the Red Veil.”

  Her brow rose. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. How it works. Who does what? How do the girls come here? Everything. What is a day like?”

  She chewed her food slowly as she thought. Then she nodded. “The girls come from all over Europe and Asia. There is even one who claims to be from America, but I believe she is Ottoman Greek and has just put on an act. That is part of Frau Zelinka’s fame, that she has drawn girls from so far and wide. In fact, many of us were not drawn, we were sold. It is a hard life in many corners of the world. Wars, disasters, poverty. Frau Zelinka’s chosen business takes advantage and we are brought here. When we are very young, they teach us things like the ancient courtesans were taught, so that when we enter the business we can properly please a man. We are taught how to dress, how to smile, how to touch, what to say.” She shrugged. “It is a business. Our comforts and our bodies are our trade. We learn it well or we do not stay—sold again, to a lesser house far from Fergana. Frau Zelinka does not like her failures waving at her from the street.”

  Kazakov dipped his head, feeling guilt that such slavery existed. While slavery remained embedded in Ottoman and Chinese cultures, the Ferganese preferred not to think it existed in their past, even though the serfdom that had supported the great Yekaterina’s world had been nothing more than a different form of slavery. And here Maria described how it existed in Fergana today and it was likely that many of the self-righteous politicians were patrons of the very girls who lacked freedom. So much for Ferganese pride at their enlightenment.

  But that was not the issue—or at least not the issue now.

  “Does she take older girls as well?” Kazakov thought about how the girl named Katya had been forcibly “bought” from her brothel for a patron who had shifted to the Red Veil.

  Maria shook her head as she took another bite of food.

  “Odd. I was told today that Katya was brought to the Red Veil at the request of a patron.”

  Putting down her fork, Maria looked at him. She nodded. “That is true. But she was only thirteen when she was brought in.”

  With her makeup on, Kazakov had thought Katya was sixteen. This new information said she was at most fourteen and more likely still thirteen and yet she was working. Rented out to any man who wanted her—like Boris Bure.

  He no longer felt hungry, yet what was the difference between thirteen and sixteen? Yes, Katya was no more than a child, but all these women had been that young once and were still enslaved today. It was not right. He scrubbed his face, the stubble of his beard making him feel far too old to be suddenly questioning everything about his society.

  “It is not so bad—our life. I began at fourteen. The man was gentle—Frau Zelinka makes sure of it. She keeps us safe.”

  He looked up and Maria must have read the revulsion and pity on his face. And she was justifying Frau Zelinka’s use of chil
dren?

  “You—this Katya—you were children. That is not right.”

  She sat back in her chair. “There are ‘children’ married with children of their own in some parts of the world, Detektiv. Some in these very mountains.”

  It was true, but that did not make the enslavement and prostitution of children and women right. “And yet you did not feel safe remaining there.”

  Sighing, she abandoned her food and sipped her wine while he ate in silence. “The youngsters bring us water and tidy our rooms. They sometimes watch what happens through closed-circuit television so they know what to expect, and Frau Zelinka will bring in a trusted patron to break them in. After all, she will, by that time, have invested greatly in us,” she ended sadly.

  “And who ‘broke in’ Katya?” The words tasted vile in his mouth.

  She frowned over her wine glass, the lantern light flickering over her lovely features and catching in the darkness of her lashes. “I am not sure. It would have happened before she joined the Red Veil. When she came, Katya was happy—giddy even—like a schoolgirl. Her heroic, blonde, first patron had brought her a present. She went on about him endlessly.”

  Kazakov stiffened. Boris Bure. It had to be. Madam Zelda at Katya’s original brothel had said Bure had had Katya taken to the Red Veil. But the description of Katya as giddy reminded him too much of the description of Yekaterina Weber before she died. It sent a shiver up his spine.

  “Tell me how the Red Veil operates.”

  She drained her glass and refilled both his and hers, then nursed hers again, her elbows resting on the table. “The mornings are easy. There are no patrons until eleven o’clock, so we can relax. We bathe. Some do exercises. A few go out for a walk. Some practice musical instruments or paint and some even garden in the back of the house. We are normal women with normal interests. The mornings are the time for that. There are also fittings—Frau Zelinka has clothing brought in for us that fits the fantasies of her patrons. Sometimes they must be resized. There is breakfast from the main kitchen, usually eggs—and tea, of course. And doctor’s visits—we must, at all costs, be healthy. At eleven we are all dressed and ready. Lunchtime patrons arrive and are served a meal and perhaps given a massage or whatever they need to relax to get through the rest of the day. And the sex of course. And in the evening there is more of the same, though massages are less and sex is more and it is a light dinner that is served. Behind it all there are the cooks and cleaners and the workmen who unload shipments and who do repairs, but most of them have their lives elsewhere and serve Frau Zelinka for a wage.”