After Yekaterina

by K. L. Abrahamson

  “Dammit, Kazakov, we asked you a question!” Antonov pounded his fist on the table and Kazakov started. The clue connections faded, but hung around like wispy chimney smoke vapors amongst the blue trees of winter.

  He blinked at his interrogators. “Repeat the question, please.”

  “Tell us how you came to kill Maria di Maria,” Antonov repeated.

  Kazakov shook his head. “I wish an advocate to be present.”

  “Then tell us what you know of this?” Alenin upended the paper evidence bag and out tumbled a furred winter hat Kazakov recognized. The ermine and lynx fur he had chosen himself, matched so the red tipped hairs caught the light. He knew inside would be his name, carefully embroidered by the wife of the tribal man who had crafted the hat.

  He glanced up at Antonov and sensed Alenin’s leer. They thought they had him. He sat back with his arms crossed and winced as his side burned. “There is more evidence than this and it will not convict me.”

  “Evidence can disappear, friend. Now tell us what you know,” Alenin said, his mouth a grim line.

  “I want an advocate.”

  Antonov leaned over the desk but his expression made Kazakov wonder whether the man’s heart was in it. “Tell us how it happened. Was the whore your lover? Was there a lover’s spat?”

  Kazakov’s fingers curled to fists. “I want an advocate.”

  Antonov glanced up at his partner. “I told you he would not play this game.” He leaned over the desk. “Be careful or you will leave us few choices, friend.”

  Alenin rounded the desk to loom over Kazakov. “All right. We’ll call an advocate. In the meantime, we can move you down to cells. There’s a lot that can happen in transit.”

  His breath smelled of a meal of sausage and garlic and Kazakov’s empty stomach curdled. There was likely a beating in store for him and there was nothing he could do about it. But as long as he was alive, there was a chance he could come through this. There was a chance he could bring the right people to justice.

  Alenin hauled him to his feet and Kazakov realized he needed the help. The damned wound had hurt him more than he thought, but he kept his head up as he was pushed out into the squad room. Again, all eyes were on him. Most were neutral. Some resentful of a comrade who would allegedly kill a woman. Pavel Chelomeyev, actually met his gaze and nodded as if he knew the truth of Kazakov’s situation. For the youngster’s sake, Kazakov hoped he didn’t try to intervene.

  Beyond the squad room, they took him to the back stairwell that led down to the cells. Prisoners had fallen down these stairs. Some had even broken their necks. Tales of those misadventures that he’d chosen not to believe in the past now took on an additional menace. How many other suspects had been innocent men who had fallen prey to the swirling currents of foreign interference? How many of his comrades were bought and paid for by the Chinese or Ottomans?

  He couldn’t think of one he would trust—at least not fully.

  He started down the stairs gripping the stair railing.

  “You move like an old man, Kazakov. Don’t tell me a little flesh wound has you off your game,” Antonov said.

  Kazakov tried to move a little faster. Two steps down to the landing. Then two hands found his shoulders and shoved. He stumbled down to the landing, flailing for balance as the hands once more found his back. Another stairway welled ahead.

  His fingertips grazed the railing, but missed. He flailed again, slamming down on his shoulder halfway down the staircase. Something cracked as he bumped down the stairs. As momentum sent his hips up over his head, he covered his skull, his neck. Over. Over. Slamming to a stop on his back at the next landing.

  Sharp pain in his shoulder. His wound screamed. He groaned and rolled to get up, but a boot found his wounded side and the world came apart.

  “That’s enough,” Antonov growled.

  He opened his eyes against the pain as strong hands heaved him up. He tried to get his feet under him, but they didn’t want to work.

  “Looks like the `khu i has just about had it.” They dragged him down the last flight of stairs and down the short hall to the basement booking room.

  The world swung around him, colored by pain and the knowledge that something was horribly wrong. Yekaterina, Semetai, Collin Archer, Maria. Something about the names. Something about how they fit together. Too many lies and too many truths.

  He slumped against the counter as they emptied his pockets. Once upon a time there was something he’d had in his pockets. Something important, but he couldn’t recall what. They took it all and half-shoved, half-dragged him down a gray concrete corridor to a cell. The solid door clanged opened with a squeal and they shoved him forward. He staggered in, going to his knees beside a metal cot. The cell door clanged shut.

  Chapter 14

  Kazakov lay his battered forehead against the cool metal cot. The cell’s chill air smelled of urine and old blood—perhaps his. There was no blanket and the gritty floor radiated cold. For a toilet there was a bucket in the corner—thankfully emptied. Four bare walls. No window. One metal door—locked. Not a particularly helpful situation except it confirmed everything he’d suspected about Antonov and Alenin. They were in this far too deep to ever get out again and they were going to make sure he wasn’t around to cause any problems. Fatal accidents in cells were not unheard of and an enquiry after such a death might be easier to rig than an outright murder investigation. They were cleaning up loose ends—just with more subtlety than he would have expected of them.

  The beating he’d endured was but an overture. He would never make it to trial. Antonov and Alenin and a woman named Prae would undoubtedly see to it. For a moment he mourned the Antonov he’d known. They might not have been good friends, but there had always been respect between them.

  Groaning, he crawled up onto the metal cot and rolled onto his back. The bolt heads from the supporting bars dug into his shoulders. He tried moving the shoulder that had been injured in his fall down the stairs. It hurt like hell, but probably wasn’t broken. Torn tissue, then. That was something to be thankful for, at least. His nose, unfortunately, was full of blood.

  A cell like this was supposed to have a mattress, but he doubted that he would ever see one. The single light bulb in its mesh cage glared down at him, the light catching on ceiling cobwebs and the flyblown concrete. Lower down, previous occupants had scrawled their epithets and burdens. He wondered what bodily fluid had been used to create the ink.

  He closed his eyes against his surroundings and thought of princes trapped in Baba Yaga’s basement dungeons. Not that he was a prince. Not that this was a fairy tale. No one was coming out of this and living happily ever after.

  He’d been close, so close. The exciting tingle of pursuit was still sparking in the back of his mind. He just needed to put all the facts together and some place to take them. He doubted Rostoff or the brass would be interested.

  On the other hand, the tingle in his brain could just be the result of a blow to his head. With his good hand, he gingerly felt the huge goose egg growing on the back of his skull.

  The case of Collin Archer was surely solved, his death due to his duplicity toward his Chinese masters. The only question possibly outstanding was just who had held the knife. He’d bet good money the knife wielder was Antonov or Alenin. Was it Rostoff or Prae who gave the orders? The difficulty was proving it. The same went for solving Maria’s murder. He had only circumstantial evidence—the fact that the two men had come after him, the fact that Maria had been alive when he last saw her and far away from Yekaterina Park. Of course, it was exactly the same kind of circumstantial evidence that Antonov and Alenin were using to rid themselves of the Kazakov “problem.”

  His word against theirs.

  But it was the case of Yekaterina and Semetai that still made no sense. Regardless of Antonov’s comments, there was no way the boy would have killed the girl he loved.

  Her body had been so pale and still on the dead October grass. So ripe f
or the future that she had been robbed of. From the walls of his memory, her dead face peered out at him, the evidence pinned around her. The autopsy report. The lines linking her to her strangely unconcerned mother, her cold, self-important, politically connected stepfather. They’d acted like it was Yekaterina’s fault that she was dead. A foolish girl at the dinner table and then she was murdered. Whatever had led to the fight at her last meal wasn’t going to be revealed, beyond the fact that it had something to do with Semetai. And then there was Natania Bure’s plea, don’t look any further—not if you truly care for Yekaterina.

  There had been pain in those words and fear in Natania’s gaze. But why? Sighing, he closed his eyes.

  Layers of Yekaterinas. Tsarina, diarist, victim. Even the girl Katya at the Red Veil. Katya was only a shortcut for the seemingly omnipresent name. Katya who had been bought for the Red Veil at a patron’s request and who had been Boris Bure’s favorite.

  Kazakov sat up, and winced. He swung his legs over the side of the cot. Katya with the gossamer blonde hair and the looks of a sixteen-year-old.

  “Holy mother of God. Eto piz`dets.” What he was thinking was so fucked up.

  He had to be wrong; and even if he was right, there was no way to prove it. Everyone involved had been too careful and very, very smart. As if Bure himself was protected by a patron who would, if it was true that the boy killed the girl, take care of the boy who could tell what he knew. The same patron then killed the spy to destroy any link between the two.

  He scrubbed at his temple and winced. He had to be making this up. It was too farfetched. He could not believe Semetai would kill Yekaterina.

  His shoulder throbbed and that arm felt weak. Blood soaked his shirt and bandages. He was bleeding again and who knew how long it would be before he received any medical attention. His wound hadn’t even been mentioned at admission. He pressed his hand over the blood and applied pressure.

  Hours passed. At least it felt like it. It was hard to tell with no daylight or watch to portion out the time. Voices rose from other cells. Prisoners swore. Prisoners yelled. Footfalls and jingled keys passed by his door, but no one stopped. No one even paused. Hell, no one but his enemies even knew he was here. Somewhere a metal door much like his clanged open and there was a shout, the muffled sounds of a fight, and then the sounds of heavy feet and something being dragged.

  He staggered up and limped to the door. That would likely be him in an hour, a day, a week. Whenever they thought his resolve might be weakest.

  He slammed the door with his fists and grabbed the handle.

  Locked, of course. He slammed the door with his palm one more time and retreated to his cot. Beating his fists against the walls would solve nothing and waste his precious energy. He sat down to wait.

  Long past the clang of the meal cart that seemed to have forgotten him. Long past the footsteps and the jiggle of the locks as the guard did his rounds, Kazakov sat and waited. Beyond the door the cells had quieted, leaving him in silence with the graffiti curses.

  He lay back with his forearm over his eyes and must have dozed off—to wake to the sound of footfall in the hall. A single tread, so not Antonov and Alenin—they never went too far from each other. He sat up, listening as the footfall came to a stop. Then keys jingled softly and he was on his feet, ready.

  The lock clicked and the door swung outward in the hand of Pavel Chelomeyev. The youngster looked pale with high points of color in his cheeks. His white shock of hair fell almost into his eyes and his shoulder holster bulged with a pistol. Their eyes met and Chelomeyev’s gaze widened.

  “Mother of God, what did they do?” he asked, scanning Kazakov’s bloodied face and torso, and then checked over his shoulder.

  Kazakov shoved past him into the hall. To hell with what he looked like.

  “What you’d expect. Why are you here?” A trick? A ruse? A setup to get him out where he could be dealt with as an escaped prisoner? He could see Antonov and Alenin doing something like that. The question was whether Chelomeyev was knowingly part of it.

  Chelomeyev shook his head. “I—I saw what they did. Your hat. I saw them take it from your drawer a few days ago. A joke, I thought. Until suddenly it is evidence against you.” He swallowed. “I see you work. I see you solve cases far more than anyone else. I—I would like to learn from you.”

  His young face was so earnest, Kazakov had to look away. Was it really possible for someone in this place, in this job, to have hope and faith? Kazakov had lost his long ago.

  “Not a good idea if you want to live—or succeed. Besides, you have a partner.” But he took advantage and started down the hall between the line of locked doors to the open door to the guard room. He stopped, Chelomeyev crowding up behind him.

  In the guardroom, the guard lay collapsed over his desk, eyes closed, blood on his temple. Papers from the desk were scattered over the floor.

  “What the hell have you done?” Kazakov demanded as he crossed to the guard and checked his pulse. Steady. Slow.

  “I hit him with my gun. I hope it wasn’t too hard.”

  Kazakov glanced back at the youngster. “You shouldn’t have hit him at all. You shouldn’t be here. Don’t you understand that this is a career-destroying move? I’m a prisoner. You’re aiding and abetting my escape. You’ll end up dead like me, or leastwise your career will.” He rifled the guard’s pockets for keys and went to the effects lockers, checked the list and unlocked his locker to pull out his bloody belongings. He pulled on his shoulder holster, his coat, and boots. His gun and mobile phone were gone.

  He glanced back at Chelomeyev. “Let me see your gun.”

  The young detective freed his weapon, opened it, and handed it to Kazakov.

  “I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to trust that you were smart enough that our friend here didn’t see it was you who hit him.”

  Chelomeyev nodded.

  “Good.”Kazakov checked the gun, flipped it closed, and stepped toward Chelomeyev. “Remember that when you wake up and you still have a job.” He clocked the gun across Chelomeyev’s temple. The young detective crumpled, but Kazakov caught him and eased him to the floor with an apology. It was for the kid’s own good. If this wasn’t a setup, he could claim he came down for a visit and met the same fate as the guard after someone unknown freed Kazakov. He was, after all, now a criminal. If this was a setup, then the kid got what was coming to him.

  Stuffing Chelomeyev’s weapon in his own holster, he pulled on his coat and headed for the door, but the sight of the guard’s desk phone stopped him.

  Risk a call to Khan from here? If they knew about Kazakov’s investigation and had seen the evidence that he’d collected, they’d know that Khan had evidence, too.

  He picked up the phone and dialed through to Khan’s cell; the phone purred lightly in his hand, but Khan didn’t answer. After fifteen rings he thumped the phone down, wondering what to do as he hauled his crusted coat on, stuffed his pockets with his car keys, and prayed that the Perseus was still on the street by the Red Veil. He headed to the rear door that led into the police garage.

  Large and poorly lit, the broad, concrete space worked to his advantage. So did the fact that at this hour of the night many of the uniformed officers had their vehicles parked in the city’s quiet corners so they could catch a few hours of sleep.

  He walked briskly through the marked vehicles to the sedans used by the detective squad. In his effects were the keys to the sedan he’d abandoned for the Perseus. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The vehicle fit him like an old tired glove, but the engine started and the vehicle slid out of its parking stall and cruised out of the garage without a hitch.

  Snow was falling softly as if this was a holy night. October was behind them. November was almost gone, and Christmas lights twinkled in the windows of a few of the downtown shops. Their glow and the hush of the snow gave the night a feel as if this time, this space, existed somewhere outside of the Fergana he knew. This was as Fergana might
be, pristine and clean and sacred. The holy mother Russia people dreamed of.

  A fairy tale, and it was all a lie.

  The streets were quiet as he reached Yekaterina Park and cautiously cruised past the Red Veil. Even the brothel’s lights were out except one that glowed near what must be the lower floor rear door, as if all of Fergana was sated except one ravenous soul. He knew whose light it was, but Prae would keep until he had Khan and his American friend safe. Besides, a light like that was a perfect lure for a man seeking revenge. A perfect lure for a trap.

  He cruised by and slowed past the Perseus, inspecting the snow. By the lack of imprints around his vehicle, no one had been near it since he left it there. He pulled the sedan to the curb. Though the police sedan might have about equal chance of being spotted by the police once they realized he had escaped, the Perseus was far superior in the snow. If he needed to escape New Moscow, the Perseus would be the better vehicle. He climbed into the trusty Perseus and the engine caught with a grinding start. Even in the cold, the vehicle reeked of old blood. Thankfully the blood on the seat had either frozen or dried, but he doubted if he would ever get the Perseus back to its once pristine condition.

  The Perseus chugged through the snow like a workhorse and he wound through New Moscow past the gaudy lit domes of Saint Basil’s and the faux frontage of Yekaterina’s old palace, lit up by spotlights through twisted walnut trees so the shadows and the walls were contorted.

  Somewhere, his country had gone wrong. Perhaps it was being surrounded by superpowers, but the inferiority complex of his country was clear in every one of its attempts at grandeur. Gradually the number of streetlights lessened until they finally relinquished the streets to the night and he entered the honest darkness of the gray mud-daub buildings of the old city.

  He didn’t know where Khalil Khan lived, though it was certainly on record somewhere. Khan had kept his roots and his home life private even after all the years they’d known each other. Though Khan was a friend, the man hadn’t trusted him with a home phone number. But then, Kazakov hadn’t invited Khan to the dacha, either.