After Yekaterina

by K. L. Abrahamson

  Shrugging, she sat back as if she’d done her job, but it still didn’t tell him what he needed to know.

  Kazakov looked down at his near-empty plate. With his fork tines he had shredded the remaining potatoes into futile tic-tac-toe designs—a game where nobody wins. “So as a patron I arrive in my Ziln at the front stairs of the Red Veil. What happens?”

  She pursed her full lips. “I suppose if the place is open, Sergei, the doorman, greets you and ushers you up the stairs. He would also make sure the stairs are free of snow. He will hold the door for you and usher you into the arms of whoever is assigned to answer the door.”

  “So it is not Frau Zelinka who welcomes patrons?”

  Maria shook her head. “Almost never unless it is a very prestigious client. Usually it is Prae.”

  “Never you?”

  She smiled. “I have not the talent. As you have seen, I can be abrupt and pushy sometimes. That is not the face that Frau Zelinksi wants for the Red Veil. Besides, I am not exotic enough. Nearly as plain as a Russian girl. So that honor goes to the others.”

  He thought of Collin Archer going into the Red Veil. “Do you know who greeted Collin Archer when he visited?”

  She shook her head. “This last time it was Prae, but I can’t recall the other times.”

  And it was something he doubted could be checked.

  “So I have come in the door. What do they do besides closing the door behind me?”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with Collin Archer’s death?”

  “It is important that I understand all the people he could have come in contact with.” He would not say more than that.

  Her expression firmed. “His coat and hat would be taken and hung away. The same girl on the door would lead him into the dining room where waiters would bring in the food, but his date would serve him and sit with him through the meal. He might also arrange for a single dining room, but Collin never did. I think he liked to see everyone around.”

  For a spy, that made sense.

  “After the meal they could adjourn to the parlor where there was music and they could enjoy a smoke. Some of the men might speak together, but Collin rarely did. Usually we retired up to my rooms.”

  “And when you got there?”

  She looked him squarely in the eye and her expression hardened. “We fucked, or course. You want to know the position?”

  He ignored her barb. “Did he have rituals? Did he give you gifts or things to give to anyone else? What did you talk about?”

  She shoved away from the table so hard the dishes clattered, and she crossed to the window to peer out into the darkness and snow.

  “Why do you treat me like—like a criminal? I’ve told you everything I know. He would come in. He would have me over the edge of the bed with our clothes still on as if he was in a hurry to get it over with. Then he would sit on the bed and smoke and talk about history. That is all I know.” She crossed to the package of cigarettes he had returned to her and dug out a smoke with shaky fingers.

  “Did Collin ever say who he worked for?” he asked.

  She glanced at him and shook her head. “I’ve no idea.” She lit the cigarette with shaky fingers and inhaled. Held and then released a blue tendril of smoke that rose up to circle the ceiling.

  “Why does this upset you so much?” he asked from his chair.

  “I have no idea about that either,” she said, looking away to the reflective window. “Or perhaps I do and I do not like the reason.”

  Chapter 8

  Kazakov lay awake too long, the plank floor too hard under his shoulder, even with a blanket under him and another pulled over top. Initially, he had tried to sleep on the sofa, but the piece of furniture had been too short and uncomfortable for his length, so he’d shifted to the floor and stretched out. But now the sounds of another person were too loud in the dacha. A sigh. A breath. The soft, rhythmic thump of the wind bumping a tree branch against the wall that could just as easily be Maria’s heartbeat. Or the stump and groan of Baba Yaga. The dacha was almost the perfect image of the old crone’s lair—a small house in the forest just waiting for some young nobleman or a foolish princess with raven hair. Both would fall into her clutches and only the wisest, with the help of magic, would escape her dungeons. The odd thing with Baba Yaga was that, according to the old stories, the old witch could sometimes be an ally, help bring the prince and the princess together, or help them escape evil pursuers.

  An enigma, that’s what the old woman was. No matter how well you knew her, you didn’t.

  Just like Yekaterina—all of them.

  He groaned and rolled over onto his back, beat his pillow into a new shape, and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. The floor was the coldest part of the house, though he had laid out close to the wood-burning stove. But hours had passed and the huge log he had placed in the burner to hold the fire overnight had long since settled into ash and embers that would sputter and glow until morning. He should get up to feed the stove, but did not want to disturb Maria.

  “You have not slept at all, have you?” Maria’s soft voice came from his bed.

  Blankets rustled and then a slim white shape clad in his shapeless t-shirt stood over him in the darkness.

  “Come to bed. It is cold on the floor and it is not fair that I steal sleep from you.” She caught his hand and again there was that tingle that threatened to awaken feelings long locked away in a dungeon like Baba Yaga’s prisoners. Attraction to a woman was not something he had room for in his life. They needed too much of him that was already consumed by his job. Attraction to this woman was even less acceptable. She was a witness. She was a victim.

  She was a whore.

  He could already hear Rostoff and Antonov laughing.

  “I’m fine here.” He tugged his hand away, pulled the blanket higher. He didn’t want her and her lavender fragrant hair or her smooth skin. He’d given up that kind of pleasure long ago. Annushka had burned the desire out of him.

  “You will not be able to think if you are tired, and you must be able to think if you are to solve this thing.” She stood with her hands on her hips above him. “Take the bed for what remains of the night. I have slept. I will doze on the sofa.”

  She stripped the blanket off of him and curled up on the small sofa as he came up off the floor protesting in his skivvies and t-shirt. She waved him away.

  His bed was there and the need for sleep weighed heavy on him.

  “Fine.” He stumbled to the bed.

  He climbed in to be confronted by the cocoon of her warmth and her lavender scenting the sheets.

  He lay like a board on his side, his back to her, but still felt her gaze on him through the darkness. The dark fall of her hair like a wave. The graceful way she moved. He could picture it even when his back was turned.

  “Eto piz’dets,” he muttered. This was so fucked up. He wanted her, but he should not. He could probably have her with just the flick of a finger, but he would focus on the case and solving it. He knew so little about this Collin Archer.

  The man was an enigma, too. Kazakov knew nothing of his life. Where did he live? Where did he work? What was he doing in Fergana—at least on the surface. If he could identify the surface, perhaps he could peel it back to find out what was underneath. He needed to go into the office to gain access to the computer. He should have done it yesterday, but the extortion money had burned in his pocket and he had wanted to get back to Maria.

  It was like this woman and Yekaterina had destroyed his mind, his logic. It was the first rule of investigation: know your victim and you will be that much closer to finding the killer. Instead of gaining that knowledge, he’d spent yesterday copying files and collecting bribes.

  He groaned and rolled over to find Maria standing over him. Her white skin seemed to glow through the t-shirt. She sat down on the bedside and stroked his hair back from his forehead, stroked his cheek and leaned down and kissed him there.
<
br />   Her gentle touch froze him. He couldn’t move. Wanted to move. Wanted to tell her to get the hell away from him. He did not need distractions. Was that why she was here? To distract him?

  But he had brought her here.

  Had that somehow been a trick, too?

  “Is this what they teach you?” he said harshly and felt her wince.

  “Yes. It is,” she said with a grace he would not have thought possible. “We bring comfort and relief. Now close your eyes. Sleep.”

  Her hand stroked his head as his mother had done, so many years ago it was almost a legend. He obeyed and his breath escaped him in a long sigh. The bed shifted under him and her long slim shape stretched beside him. Her hand stroked his head, his shoulder, his back. Her lavender scent filled his lungs with her presence.

  The image of young Yekaterina stroking Manas’s hair came into his head. They were on a blanket spread on a vivid green lawn. Walnut tree shadows dappled their skin as they lay side-by-side facing each other. They were talking—about love, about leaving, but something else, too. Though Yekaterina’s touch was soothing, there was a rapid beat to her heart. Yekaterina was afraid.

  So was he.

  §

  Kazakov woke with a start, as if he just now remembered to breathe. The dim, pale light of morning sneaked past the floral curtains covering the dacha windows. Koshka’s furry form lay warm behind his knees, while Maria pressed her warmth against the front of him. She lay outside the bed covers, with his thin blanket pulled over top. One bare shoulder had goosebumps while he was toasty warm.

  He needed to get up. Let her have the covers, the bed. He had things to do this morning, not the least of which was visiting the printer’s shop again.

  He first tried to shift Koshka and the black cat mewed in protest and refused to budge. He shoved her out of the way and slid away from Maria toward the wall.

  She moaned and rolled over, snaking one long, smooth arm over him. Her face was too close, her breath too hot in his face. He eased away, intent on climbing out over her.

  But she tugged him in closer and her eyes flashed open. She smiled. “Good morning, Detektiv.”

  Then she kissed him.

  It was a shockingly sweet, chaste kiss—to start. But it lingered and morning breath dissolved in desire. Her lips and tongue played over his mouth and he couldn’t move. No. He wanted it, was hungry for it. Starving.

  His hands snaked up and caught her hair, her head, and he kissed her back. His hands sleeked her hair, her shoulder, her breast.

  What the hell was he doing? She was distracting him again! This was exactly what Rostoff would want in order to compromise him! He shoved her away and rolled off the bed, leaving her huddled in sheets and blankets. He should be starving for answers to this case. That was where he should be focused.

  She looked up at him, her hair and gaze tangled with sleep. “You do not need to stop. I would have welcomed you.”

  “Would you? As payment? Or a job? I keep you safe, you pay me in kind? Or perhaps there is another reason for you being here that you’ve not told me? Perhaps someone else pays you?”

  She blinked as if he’d struck her, the sleepy languor faded away. “I wanted to be with you. You are kind, but oh, so lonely. I wanted to take the loneliness away—at least for a little while. Is that so bad?”

  He snorted.

  “I do not kiss just anyone.”

  “Aah. The myth of the whore who keeps her kisses sacred.” He stepped into the water closet that occupied a small shed he’d added to one end of the kitchen for Annushka when she complained about using the dacha’s outhouse. The unheated room also held a metal tub he could haul into the kitchen for his weekly bath. Sometime in the future, he really should build a proper bathroom. Back in the kitchen he doused his face and brushed his teeth in the kitchen sink, then pulled on the trousers and shirt that he’d hung on the back of a kitchen chair last night. He pulled clean socks from a bin under the bed and pulled on his boots, gun holster, jacket, coat, and old fur hat. “I have work to do. I’ll be back.”

  He shoved out the door into—cold.

  Sometime last night the snow had stopped and the sky had cleared, leaving a scraped-clean bowl of blue overhead. His breath steamed in the air. His cheeks, nose, and ears stung. There was no wind and the trees around the clearing were a lace of black limbs and glistening white, the boughs weighed almost to breaking with their load of snow. In the silence, a cr-r-a-ac-ck in the forest said a branch had given way under the load. A trace of smoke and the smell of burning wood filled the clearing from the dacha’s chimney, telling him that Maria had risen and stirred the fire to life. Her choice. She could read or do whatever women do. She was safe and she owed him nothing.

  It was a bad idea bringing her here, but what was done, was done.

  With some regret he left a trail in the pristine snow and climbed into the frigid vehicle to turn the key. The engine complained and then roared to life. He climbed out and scraped the windshield clear, then eased the resistant clutch into gear and backed out, surprised the vehicle could handle snow deep enough that he really should shovel. He aimed for the tunnel through the trees that marked the lane and the Perseus rumbled forward. In the rear view mirror, Maria stood at a frosted window.

  Was that how she lived her life? Always looking out, hopeful?

  He hated to tell her, but there was nothing better outside.

  Perhaps there was no such thing as freedom.

  §

  The drive in was uneventful, the roads mostly unplowed this early in the morning, though a lone behemoth plow prowled the main street sending up a huge stream of snow onto the sidewalks. No one would care. Anyone who was anyone drove.

  At the police station he drove around the block until he found a side street that hadn’t been cleared. He pulled into the curb, regardless of the fact that he would likely find the Perseus covered in snow upon his return. Clearing snow was preferable to once more finding his vehicle searched or tampered with. He waded through the frigid morning, his ears and nose freezing regardless of the old hat he wore. He was going to have to replace his missing one.

  At the station, it was as he suspected—no one was in the detective squad room at this hour. It was too early. Only the aroma of old cigarettes and cold tea from the unwashed cups on the desks greeted him. He left his coat on his desk and went to the data machine in the corner. There he prepared a search for Collin Archer and fed it into the machine.

  He sat back waiting, keeping an ear open for the sound of voices approaching as the machine’s lights flashed. No one came. The green light blinked and the screen lit up. He stabbed for a printout and the busy rat-a-tat of the keys filled the room. Then the page fell down into the basket for his collection.

  He returned to his desk and started reading.

  Collin Archer. Age forty-one, so Khan had been right that he was younger than his face. Arrived in Fergana six months ago on a business visa. His documents said he was an executive for the Anglo-German company, AngloTec, and had an apartment in a quiet part of the city.

  Kazakov frowned. AngloTec had arrived in Fergana with much fanfare four years before. They had planned to build a large factory that would specialize in miniaturized communications equipment—going head-to-head with Ankara, the largest Ottoman company, and with ShenZhen out of China. The factory had gone up quickly, most of it built in pieces in Europe and then carried by train across Eurasia because, the news reports had said, the Anglo-German consortium that owned AngoTec had been concerned about building quality in a backwater like Fergana. It had caused a firestorm of resentment, but that hadn’t stopped Fergana’s best and brightest from flocking to the relatively well-paying job opportunities at the company.

  If Archer was an executive for the company, why hadn’t he been reported missing? It didn’t make sense for the disappearance of an important man to go unremarked. Were the Anglos aware they had a spy in their midst? And spying on what? Corporate espionage? That would m
ake sense. Neither Ankara nor ShenZhen would be happy about the competition.

  He frowned. Perhaps he was wrong to think that there was a link between Archer’s death and that of the two teenagers.

  What did he have to pin them together other than Boris Bure’s presence at the Red Veil?

  He needed to know more about Bure, too. But running a name like Bure on the police computer was likely to set off a few alarms somewhere. For all the democracy that the original Yekaterina had bestowed on them, the rumblings of war between the two empires and awareness that Fergana was awash in spies meant that the government was keeping a closer watch on everyone these days.

  Was that why Maria was with him? Sent to keep track of him? Did she have a phone he hadn’t seen? He hadn’t searched her or her belongings.

  A part of him resented his suspicions, for there was no question that something about Maria attracted him. He could still feel the smoothness of her skin, could taste her lips and smell her infernal lavender scent as if those transitory sensations were branded on him.

  He grabbed his cup with a three-day sludge of tea at the bottom and went into the kitchen to run a glass of water. Cleanse his mouth. Find something to eat and bury her taste. But her lavender scent was on his skin, his face, his hands. He washed again, in the office washroom, but her scent didn’t come off. He washed again. And again.

  But apparently only time would rub her off. That and getting her out of his house.