Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express ir-14

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Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express ir-14 Page 22

by Stuart M. Kaminsky


  The pizza was tasteless and barely warm, but Rostnikov found himself hungry. He ate slowly as he moved back from the statue and looked up.

  “History is made by the innocent and the guilty,” a woman’s voice said behind him.

  “Guilt and innocence change with history,” said Rostnikov, finishing his pizza. He did not turn around.

  “I’ll take the bag,” the woman said.

  “And you have something for me,” the man said.

  “First you,” she said.

  He turned and found himself facing a slight, reasonably pretty young woman with pink cheeks and no makeup. Her coat was dark fur but quite old.

  He handed her the bag. “Now, …” he said.

  “First I check to be sure you have what you have promised,” she said, starting to unzip the bag she had been handed.

  “Clothes,” the man said.

  The woman looked up at him. Fury, anger, and then fear.

  “I have given you a better gift than money. I have saved your life,” he said. “That is what I have for you.”

  “You have?…”

  “The man who was to give you the money was going to kill you as soon as you handed him what you are carrying. If I had not taken care of him, you would be lying on the ice here now, and he would be walking off with the money and your gift.”

  “You are lying,” she said, starting to back away.

  Rostnikov limped a step toward her.

  The young woman turned to run and found her way blocked by Sasha Tkach. The woman tried to dart past the young man but Sasha reached out and grabbed the woman’s wrist with one hand as he reached into her coat pocket with the other to remove a wrapped package about the size of a paperback novel.

  When he had placed it in his pocket, the young woman was released.

  “I want my money,” she said, turning to Rostnikov.

  “We can arrest you,” he said. “We can also let you walk away. We give you the choice.”

  The young woman looked at the two who had stopped her, bumped into a woman carrying a bulging shopping bag, and ran away.

  “We got it,” Sasha said, handing the package to Rostnikov. “What do you think it is?”

  Rostnikov unzipped the duffel bag and placed the package inside.

  “There are questions to which it is best we not know the answer. I have a cab waiting.”

  They moved to the cab and got in.

  “Extra for a second passenger,” said the cabbie.

  “We are policemen from Moscow,” said Rostnikov. “Consider the pizza your extra fare.”

  “Where do you want to go now?”

  “The airport,” said Rostnikov.

  “You just got here,” said the cabbie. “You came all the way from Moscow to look at a statue?”

  “We collected a souvenir,” said Rostnikov.

  It took them a little over an hour to arrange for a military plane at Koltsovo Airport to take them to Moscow. A call to the Yak had been needed. Their conversation had been brief.

  DIRECTOR YAKLOVEV: You have it?

  ROSTNIKOV: Yes.

  YAKLOVEV: In what form is it?

  ROSTNIKOV: A package about the size of a paper-covered copy of Diary of a Madman.

  YAKLOVEV: You have not opened it?

  ROSTNIKOV: No.

  YAKLOVEV: The money?

  ROSTNIKOV: It is in the possession of another branch of the government which provided us with assistance essential to secure the package.

  YAKLOVEV: The money is of little importance. The courier?

  ROSTNIKOV: Dead.

  YAKLOVEV: You had to kill him?

  ROSTNIKOV: No. He was assassinated by an old man who is now in the custody of the other branch which I mentioned. We are at the airport in Ekaterinburg.

  YAKLOVEV: I know the commanding officer of military security in Ekaterinburg. He owes me a favor. Go to the ticket counter. There will be two tickets on the next plane to Moscow.

  ROSTNIKOV: We are on the way.

  YAKLOVEV: Come to my office directly when you arrive. A car will be waiting for you at the airport.

  With that, the Yak hung up the phone.

  The flight back was uneventful. It was a small business-flight plane with a handful of men in business suits. One of the businessmen, clutching a briefcase in his lap, his eyes closed, sat alone in the rear of the plane. His face was rigid. A brief burst of minimal turbulence made the man quiver in fear.

  “Porfiry Petrovich,” Sasha said. “Maya will be home when we get to Moscow. Maya and the children.”

  Since he knew this, Rostnikov said nothing.

  Sasha continued. “That woman.”

  “Svetlana Britchevna.”

  “Yes. She …”

  “I know,” said Rostnikov. “A beautiful woman, very skilled.”

  “I have been tempted by those less beautiful than she,” Sasha said.

  “You have no choice,” said Rostnikov. “None of us do. Temptation is … let us leave it at that. Temptation is. You make choices. Give in to it or do not because of the consequences.”

  “It is a weakness in me,” Sasha said.

  “Obviously,” said Rostnikov. “But it is not one which you need indulge. These things are indeed obvious, Sasha Tkach. I am giving you no great words of wisdom. Now, if you will please, I will remove this leg, this enemy with which I have a truce, place it on the floor, and indulge myself in some self-indulgent scratching.”

  Chapter Eight

  Before the dreams of ancient Greece

  Before the shaman and the priest

  Jason and the Golden Fleece

  Before the Dead Sea Scrolls released

  Their meaning or the experts pieced together

  The epic of Gilgamesh

  Trans-Siberian Express

  The car was waiting for them at the Star City military runway just outside of Moscow. It was night.

  Rostnikov was surprised to see Akardy Zelach seated next to the driver. However, he was grateful that Zelach was not driving. He was, Porfiry Petrovich knew from experience, a threat to mankind behind the wheel.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your coming to greet us, Akardy Zelach?” asked Rostnikov.

  “I must talk to you,” Zelach said, his voice less than steady.

  Rostnikov did not bother to ask if the subject of Zelach’s concern was urgent. If it were not, the slouching and obviously uncomfortable detective in the front seat would not have had the courage to impose himself on the scene.

  “Can it wait till we get to Petrovka?” Rostnikov asked.

  “Yes,” said Zelach, who turned his head forward, adjusted his glasses, and closed his eyes, trying to remember approximately how he and his mother had worked out what he would say to the chief inspector.

  They drove straight to Petrovka, Rostnikov breaking his usual rule of sitting next to the driver so that he would be at the side of the silent Sasha. The snow was falling softly, crystals glittering in the headlights, streetlights, and the eyes of men and women.

  “You did well,” Rostnikov said.

  Sasha nodded and said, “Maya is back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I should wait till tomorrow to go home.”

  “Maybe you should take three days off. Be with your family. Find your mother’s artist friend. Be a husband and father. Play with your wife and children in the snow. Let us make that an order. You are to take three days off.”

  Sasha nodded and said no more.

  When they pulled up in front of Petrovka’s gates Rostnikov got out, being careful to hold on to the door of the Lada to keep from slipping. Zelach was standing on the sidewalk, waiting.

  “The driver will take you home,” Rostnikov said. “Give my love to Maya and kiss the children for me. And one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Brush your teeth before you go to bed with your wife tonight,” said Rostnikov, closing the door and waving the driver into the night.

  “N
ow,” said Rostnikov as he joined Zelach on the sidewalk in front of the iron gate, “do you want to go to my office and talk for a few minutes or wait for me there while I report to the director?”

  “I would like to speak here. I will be brief,” said Zelach, looking around as if he expected someone to intrude on their conversation. “It is about Inspector Karpo.”

  “Karpo,” Rostnikov repeated when Zelach paused, considering whether he could go on.

  “I think … I know it is not my place, but I am concerned about him. And about me. My mother is concerned. She agreed that I should tell you.”

  The night was cold and the hour late. Rostnikov stood patiently, waiting for the tortured man before him to provide some clarity.

  “I think Inspector Karpo is behaving very unlike himself”

  “In what way?” asked Rostnikov.

  “I think he might be doing things that are not … I am not doing this well.”

  “Things that are? …” Rostnikov prompted patiently.

  “Things that could get him hurt or killed. And me too. I mean they could get me hurt and killed too, not that I am doing such things. I mean, Inspector Karpo is the senior detective and I do whatever he orders, but …”

  “You think he is behaving suicidally?”

  “Sui-I don’t know. I am just concerned. I thought, my mother thought, you should know.”

  “Have you told Inspector Karpo about your concerns?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He never really answered me.”

  “Be calm, Akardy,” Rostnikov said, starting to feel the cold creep into his half leg. If he stood out here long enough, he would have definite difficulty walking. “Tell me what has brought you to this conclusion about Inspector Karpo. Talk slowly.”

  Zelach sighed, a cloud of cold steam billowing from his mouth, and began to speak.

  When Zelach had finished, Rostnikov said, putting his right hand on the man’s shoulder, “You were right to tell me, Akardy. Now, go home. I will see you in the morning.”

  Five minutes later, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was ushered into the office of Director Yaklovev by Pankov, who trotted ahead of the chief inspector like a puppy in urgent need of a fire hydrant.

  The Yak was seated behind his desk, hands folded, making no pretense of doing anything but waiting for the arrival of his chief inspector. He motioned Rostnikov toward one of the two chairs across from the desk and as soon as the detective was seated, the Yak held out his right hand.

  Rostnikov, still wearing his coat, reached into his pocket, pulled out the package he carried, and handed it across the table. The Yak placed it in front of him and patted it once.

  “I will write a full report in the morning unless you need it immediately,” Rostnikov said.

  “There will be no need for a report,” said the Yak.

  Rostnikov nodded. “Then I may-”

  “A moment,” said the Yak, tapping the package before him. “There were developments while you were away. The missing son of Nikoli Lovski has been located and returned to his father. Zelach shot the kidnapper. He will explain it to you, I am sure. Inspector Karpo has already submitted a report about the incident, which I have edited somewhat.”

  “The kidnapper?”

  “A foreigner,” said the Yak. “Appears to have some influential connections. He was released an hour ago. No matter. The affair is settled to my satisfaction and that of Nikoli Lovski.”

  “You said developments?” Rostnikov said.

  “Your son and Elena Timofeyeva have apprehended the subway attacker,” said the Yak. “We are being given full credit. Unfortunately, Detective Timofeyeva was slightly injured during the apprehension, but she is resting at home. I have recommended her for a medal.”

  “Now may I-”

  “Rostnikov,” the Yak said, sitting back. “You are to forget the existence of this package.”

  “I shall direct my curiosity in other directions.”

  “Not toward the Lovski case,” said the Yak.

  “Then, with my limited options, I shall go to see Elena Timofeyeva.”

  “We understand each other,” the Yak said, rising.

  Rostnikov rose too. “I believe we do,” said the policeman.

  The Yak seated himself again while Rostnikov crossed the room and paused at the door, where he turned and said, “I have given Sasha Tkach three days’ leave.”

  The Yak nodded.

  “I should like to also remove Inspector Karpo from the regular case rotation.”

  This time the Yak paused and cocked his head to one side.

  “Special assignment until further notice with your approval,” Rostnikov went on.

  “Reason?”

  “His skills, I believe, will be better utilized in other areas. And I believe there is a fatigue factor involved.”

  “Fatigue?”

  “Inspector Karpo has worked tirelessly for two decades, tirelessly and, I believe, at great cost to his emotional well-being.”

  “Signs of emotion in Inspector Karpo have evaded my observation,” said the Yak.

  “And his,” said Rostnikov.

  “Your request is granted. However, this must be temporary.”

  “Six months should be sufficient,” said Rostnikov.

  “Six months, then. You will not forget to keep me informed of his assignments,” said the Yak.

  “I forget only what you order me to forget,” said Rostnikov.

  Unspoken was the quid pro quo. Neither man smiled. Rostnikov limped from the room, closing the door slowly behind him.

  Rostnikov had opened the package and examined its contents. Of this Igor Yaklovev was reasonably certain. Even without certainty, however, he had to assume that the chief inspector had done so. Survival depended on assuming worst-case scenarios. Rostnikov’s requests for leave for Sasha Tkach and an assignment change for Emil Karpo suggested that Rostnikov had something with which to bargain, something unspoken. That did not, ultimately, matter. The director and his chief inspector had an unspoken agreement. Their relationship was nearly perfect. Since it was based on long-term mutual benefit and not transient loyalty, they both seemed comfortable in the pragmatic relationship. The Yak had kept his part of the agreement and would continue to do so. Igor Yaklovev would contrive, blackmail, instigate, and further his own ambitions, but he would never betray one of his people. The Yak’s loyalty was well established. It was his principal currency among those who worked for him. Igor Yaklovev’s word was good, though his methods were without scruples.

  He rose, moved to the door, locked it, and returned to the chair behind his desk. Then he opened the package before him. There was a leather string around a thick, brown-paper wrapping. He untied the string, carefully opened the paper, and found a neatly folded stack of papers pressed into a metal box about an inch deep.

  The first sheet of paper was brown, cracks intruding at the places where it had been folded. Beneath the first sheet were newer sheets.

  Yaklovev gently unfolded the first sheet. It was a short letter, written in a fine hand in firm strokes of black ink. In the righthand corner of the sheet was the date: January 6, 1894.

  The note was in German. The Yak had more than a reasonable command of written German. He read:

  Dear Baron Von Vogler,

  You have certainly noted that enclosed in this sealed pouch delivered into your hands by Colonel Maxim Verobyanov of the Royal Guard is a gem of considerable worth. I believe you will recognize it and know its monetary value and its value as a national treasure. I have been informed that it is the largest and most nearly perfect in the world. I have had it replaced in the collection of my jewelry with a fine copy. My beloved Nicholas, I am certain, will never notice.

  From time to time I hope to send you more such treasures. Out of your loyalty to my father I trust you to keep them safe in the event that my children and I may someday need them.

  There are signs of unrest, to which my husba
nd does not give value. There are concessions to the forces which threaten us, the forces of a conspiring military and the horrid prospect of discontented masses. Need I say more? Of all this I have been advised by many.

  I am uncertain about the effect this new railroad will have on the czar’s power and position. The cost is great, the treasury of our nation threatened, and problems continue to plague its construction. Yet my husband is confident that the railroad will open new Vistas and stand as a memorial to our entire family and a rallying force for all the Russian people under the royal family of Romanov.

  May it be so. But if it is not, I trust in you, dear friend, to be prepared to receive those of us who may need a safe haven in the world.

  As you called me in childhood and as I remain to you-

  Alix

  There was no ruby in the package. This did not surprise Yaklovev, though it did provide him with a dilemma. If he took credit for recovering this historic document in the hand of the Czarina Alexandra, there might well be those who wondered if he had also recovered the gem.

  It was obvious that the gem and the letter had never reached the German baron, and after more than a century it was pointless to speculate on what had happened to the ruby. He could certainly argue that point, but there were potential enemies, rivals who might raise the question. Tempting as it was to take credit for this discovery, it was far more prudent to put it away safely, perhaps to use another day.

  The letter had been a bonus and not necessarily a welcome one. The real treasure he had sought now lay before him in the form of neatly folded sheets of names, dates, transactions, agreements, and documents.

  Igor Yaklovev slowly examined the list on top of the pile, a list of some of the most prominent men in government and public life, not only in Russia but in various states of the former Soviet Union.

  Before him was clear evidence of payoffs to these men from the Ural Mafia in return for protection and favors. There were even documents making clear that some of the most influential of these men were aware of killings that had taken place.

  These documents were the real treasure.

  Director Yaklovev returned the papers to the package, rewrapped it, and stood. He placed the package in his briefcase, lifted his phone, and pushed the button to connect him with Pankov, who answered instantly. The Yak ordered a car and hung up.

 

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