Hard Currency

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  The dogs of Moscow still looked cared for. Elena wondered how long it would be before they looked like the dogs of Havana.

  Rostnikov came out of the hotel. Without looking around he came down the steps, dropped his suitcase in the open trunk of the taxi, and joined Elena in the back seat.

  “Tell him to hurry,” he said, and Elena did so.

  The driver nodded, looked over his shoulder, and backed into the street, where he almost collided with a rusted green Chevrolet. Then he made a right turn on the Avenue of the Presidents and headed for the airport.

  “Inspector,” Elena began.

  “There is an Aeroflot flight in one hour,” Rostnikov said as they passed a park where men and women were building colorful wooden booths.

  “I …” she said, but he held up a hand.

  “On the plane,” he said.

  Elena sat back wishing she had used the bathroom at the hotel.

  She was jolted forward suddenly; her head hit the roof of the cab. She almost toppled over the front seat but was pulled back by a powerful grip.

  Elena brushed the hair from her face, looked out the windshield of the cab, and saw a large, black car directly in front of them. A similar car was beside them, pressing the taxi to the curb.

  The taxi driver looked back at his passengers, closed his eyes, and crossed himself.

  Elena looked at Rostnikov.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  Men were getting out of the two cars that had them trapped. Rostnikov did not seem to notice.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. He touched her arm and whispered, “Do your best not to show them you are frightened. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good,” said Rostnikov, opening his door.

  Elena slid across the seat and followed him out. On the sidewalk, people hurried away, not wanting to see what would happen next.

  There were five large men, all wearing suits. None of them carried a weapon. As the men advanced, Rostnikov went to meet them, Elena at his side.

  One of the men came over to take Elena’s arm. Rostnikov reached across her and removed the man’s hand.

  “Tell them we will cause no trouble,” Rostnikov said in Russian.

  Elena was afraid her voice would crack, but before she could speak, one of the men spoke in Russian.

  “We do not expect any trouble. That car.”

  The man pointed to the second car and Elena and Rostnikov walked to it and entered the darkness of the back seat.

  SIXTEEN

  ANATOLI WAS UP BEFORE Ginka reached him. There had been a mistake, she reported breathlessly. Teddi at the Arabatskaya Station had gone to the toilet. When he came back to his position, he had found …

  “Phone,” he said. “Tell the others. Everyone to Arabatskaya.”

  Arabatskaya Station was on one of the six lines of the Metro system that crossed each other at the center of Moscow. A circle line, the Koltsevaya, circled the intersecting lines. Arabatskaya was on the red line not far from the center of Moscow.

  Again. Again. Again. Again. Anatoli thought. He could wait for a train or take the car parked above. He was at Kirovskaya, four stops away on the red line. The train might be faster but he could not wait. He ran to the end of the station and up the escalator, shouting words that echoed back to those who followed him with fear but without question.

  Karpo had received the call from a boy who did not identify himself.

  “Arabatskaya Station,” the boy had said as a train pulled in. “A mistake. Another dead.”

  Karpo was two stops from Arabatskaya on the Studencheskaya platform. He dropped the phone and got through the doors as they were closing. As the train pulled out, he stood rigid, next to the door, willing himself not to imagine. Imagination had never come easily to Emil Karpo and he did not welcome it now.

  He focused on a small screw on the door before him. The only other passengers on the car, three men in work clothes, stopped talking.

  When the train pulled into Arabatskaya, Karpo got off and looked down the platform at a small crowd gathered in a rough circle. As he hurried forward he could see that three of the people were Capones. One person was a Metro motorman. There was a great deal of blood on the platform, and just beyond the gathering was something he recognized. Sasha Tkach’s bag, lying on its side, open, a book half out.

  “Shit,” cried a girl.

  Karpo pushed his way past the uniformed motorman and looked down at Sasha Tkach.

  Tkach was on one knee, trying to find life in the body whose dress made it clear it was a girl but whose head was a bloody meaningless mass.

  A girl wept. A boy with pink hair wailed.

  “Sasha,” said Karpo.

  Tkach, covered in blood, looked up and shook his head.

  “Witnesses,” asked Karpo, looking around the crowd.

  A woman, three Capones, the motorman. All looked blank and frightened.

  All shook their heads.

  “No one came up the stairs,” said a boy. “I had to take a leak, but it was quick. No one came up. I think I heard her, but … I don’t know.” The boy shrugged. “Anatoli will kill me,” he said.

  Karpo turned to the Metro man.

  “Did you see … ?”

  Then, after five years and now forty-two deaths, it was over.

  “Nothing,” said the Metro man. “I got off the train with these people and—”

  He stopped.

  Karpo was looking at him unblinking. He was certain he recognized the voice.

  “Your bag,” Karpo said. “Hand it to me.”

  “My bag?”

  Sasha was at Karpo’s side now, and the woman who was standing next to Odom began to move away. The boy, anxious to redeem himself, stepped toward Yevgeny Odom with a shout and slipped in the blood of the murdered girl. He fell backward as Yevgeny, bag in hand, leaped down onto the track and began running.

  “Call ahead, next station,” said Karpo. “Tell them to be ready.”

  Karpo ran to the edge of the platform and jumped down.

  “What if a train … ?” Sasha called, but Karpo had already plunged into the darkness beyond the edge of the station.

  Ahead of him, Karpo could hear the running footsteps of Yevgeny Odom, but Karpo did not run. In the dim guide lights of the tunnel he could see a shape moving away with nowhere to go.

  From somewhere distant, the grinding of a train touched Karpo’s senses. Behind him, on the platform of the station he had just left, there was a new rush of voices, noise, curses.

  Karpo stopped. He was breathing heavily.

  “There is no place to go,” he said, and his voice echoed through the tunnel, repeating “Go. Go.”

  “We’ve called ahead to the next station. They’ll be waiting for you.”

  The footsteps raced on for a dozen yards. The dim figure swayed and then stopped.

  As Karpo moved toward the figure he thought he heard a new presence behind him in the tunnel.

  “Walk toward me,” Karpo called out. “Hold your hands up.”

  “You will kill me, Karpo. I know you will kill me.”

  The man did not sound frightened, though he was breathing heavily.

  “I will not kill you,” Karpo said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I have to think.”

  “There is no time.”

  “No time,” came the voice from the darkness. “I’ve done what I had to do. If I didn’t help Kola, he would have torn through my chest. You understand?”

  “There is no time,” Karpo repeated, still moving forward slowly.

  “It’s always been like that. Don’t you see? Always. You should understand. I could tell it in your voice. You’re like me. You have a Kola inside you.”

  “I am nothing like you,” said Karpo, whose head suddenly went mad with the explosion of a migraine. Always he had warning. Always he had an hour, or at least minutes.

  The beating in his head ha
d never come like this. Karpo’s eyes closed with the pain. He was twenty yards from the man now and—yes, maybe it was the sudden headache—the figure before him was a mirror image.

  “We must leave,” said Karpo. “We must find a safe place before a train comes.”

  “There is no place safe on earth, or in heaven or hell,” said Odom. “And there is no heaven or hell. Perhaps there is not even an earth.”

  Karpo was within a few yards of the man now.

  “Hands out,” he said softly. “Turn and hurry to the next station.”

  The black outline ahead shook its head and stepped toward Karpo. It was only when Odom stepped into the partial glow of a tunnel light that Karpo could see the hammer in his hand, bloody claw up.

  “You and I will be the last,” said Odom.

  Karpo reached back for his weapon, disconcerted by his pounding head. He had his gun in hand and halfway up when he knew that there would not be enough time. He might shoot the man but the hammer would still descend. This was faster than thought. The creature over him in the motorman’s uniform was not the man he had followed into the tunnel. This was a wide-eyed caricature moving like a wolf.

  Then the shot clattered, followed by another and another, and the hammer did come down, missing Karpo and clanging to the track. Karpo backed against the cool tunnel wall and watched the Metro man’s body convulse and roll back. More shots and the body danced in a dim glow. The noise tore through Karpo’s head but the detective had his gun up now. He turned and aimed it down the tunnel.

  “Stop,” he called.

  One more defiant shot tore into the dead Yevgeny Odom.

  Karpo blinked. Anatoli Xeromen walked forward, an AK-47 in his hand.

  “Hand me the weapon,” Karpo said. Anatoli threw the gun down as he stepped past Karpo and advanced on the body.

  “We’ve got to leave the tunnel,” said Karpo. “I can hear a train.”

  Anatoli kicked the dead man in the face.

  “You hear me?” asked Karpo.

  “I hear,” Anatoli said. “There’s no hurry. One of my gang will stop the train when it gets to the station. He has a gun even bigger than the Ah-Kay.”

  Karpo picked up the weapon and moved to the body. He was in no condition to move the dead man by himself, and he doubted if he could get Anatoli Xeromen’s help.

  “Let’s go,” said Karpo, moving down the track.

  “I’ll be a hero, you know,” said the young man.

  “You had an illegal weapon,” said Karpo.

  “And you are going to turn me in?”

  They were walking side by side, their own voices coming back at them.

  Karpo didn’t answer.

  “We’re partners,” said Anatoli. “Partners and heroes.”

  Partners echoed through the tunnel.

  Heroes echoed through the tunnel.

  Emil Karpo heard them and heard them and felt the pain.

  The house to which Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov and Elena Timofeyeva were taken was large. It looked like someone’s dream of Old Spain.

  It was on a hill between two other houses from the same dream.

  The two cars had parked before the house. Three of the men who had taken them stepped out and flanked them as they moved forward to be greeted by two more men and a woman. Just inside the doorway, in a cool anteroom, both Rostnikov and Elena were thoroughly searched.

  “This way,” said the man who spoke Russian.

  They followed him through a door in front of which stood a pair of men in fatigue uniforms. Both men had automatic weapons held at the ready.

  “The lady will come with me,” said the man.

  Elena looked at Rostnikov, who nodded. The door opened. The door closed and Rostnikov was alone in a bright room filled with familiar-looking heavy Russian furniture.

  “The previous owner was a Russian general,” came a voice in English from across the room near a window.

  The window was draped, and Rostnikov could now see the outline of a figure.

  “He departed, like so many of you, leaving behind promises and trash to be picked up by the real revolutionaries.”

  The man who stepped out from behind the curtains held his hands behind his back. He had a full-flowing curly gray beard, and wore a perfectly pressed and slightly faded fatigue uniform.

  “Sit,” said Fidel Castro. “You have a war wound. Sit.”

  Castro moved to an overstuffed chair and sat, his hands resting on both arms. There was a similar seat across from him. Rostnikov took it, and Castro immediately stood again and began pacing the room.

  “You do not seem surprised to see me,” said Castro, his eyes turning suddenly on Rostnikov.

  “It was a good entrance,” said Rostnikov. “But the fanfare was too loud for it to be anyone but you.”

  Castro nodded, fidgeted with a large ring on his right hand, and cocked his head to one side like a curious bird trying to decide whether the creature in front of it was edible. Then he paced again, pausing to straighten a picture here, move a vase there.

  “Would you like coffee?” he asked.

  “I would like to catch a plane to Moscow,” Porfiry Petrovich answered.

  “One question honestly answered and you may leave,” said Castro, stepping quickly in front of Rostnikov and leaning forward as he rubbed his palms together.

  “You are the host,” said Rostnikov.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to leave Cuba?”

  “I think you know,” said Rostnikov.

  Castro nodded and scratched his right ear nervously.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. I know, but let us play a game. Humor me. There are those who believe I have lost my mind, so treat me like a dangerous madman. I’m beginning to think a man who displays the hostility you are showing me may also be considered a madman by some. So, one madman to another …”

  Rostnikov hesitated for a moment and then said, “Igor Shemenkov murdered Maria Fernandez. I was brought in to find witnesses and clues that would convince me that he was innocent. I was to discover a Santería murder. This would spread fear of the Santería. It would also clear Igor Shemenkov and permit him to return to Russia.”

  Castro played with the curls at the bottom of his beard.

  “Who would want that?” he asked.

  “I can but guess,” said Rostnikov.

  Castro folded his arms across his chest and waited.

  “He was an agent for your people working in the embassy,” said Rostnikov. “He gave you codes, messages. His conviction as a murderer might result in embarrassing things coming to light. As a man exonerated of a crime he did not commit, he can go back to Russia and continue to work for you knowing that if he does not, he will face exposure as a spy. I would guess that there are still friends of Cuba in the Kremlin who were more than willing to go along with your request that a Russian investigator be sent to Havana, an investigator who would discover that Shemenkov was framed by the Santería.”

  “Close,” said Castro, sitting in front of Rostnikov and drumming his hands on his knees. “Usually, I do not trouble myself personally with such situations, you understand. But I was informed of what you had done. Why did you hit him? You could have left without our thinking you knew anything.”

  “I could not stop myself,” said Rostnikov. “Igor Shemenkov is a traitor, a murderer, and probably many other things.”

  “You are always like this?” asked Castro, leaning forward.

  “No,” said Rostnikov with a sigh. “Usually, I look for a way to survive and do as much of my duty as I can. Maybe I’m not accustomed to tropical weather.”

  Castro nodded and rubbed his eyes.

  “But treason and murder were more than you could stand,” said Castro almost to himself.

  Rostnikov did not answer.

  “What am I to do with you, Russian? You and your assistant could have an accident. I can threaten you, tell you that I can have you killed any time, anywhere, even in Moscow. But you’ve heard such th
reats before.”

  “I have already passed the information on,” said Rostnikov.

  “Povlevich? The KGB agent?” asked Castro. “We are helping him defect to Colombia. He was cheap. Russians are cheap, Rostnikov.”

  “Not all,” said Porfiry Petrovich. He wanted to rise now because his leg pain had returned, but he did not want to appear defiant.

  “And not all Cubans. We were very expensive.” Castro laughed. “Billions. Billions. And what did we give you in return? Medical services, useless missile bases, vows of friendship. We used you.”

  “And now it is over,” said Rostnikov.

  “Perhaps not. We will survive,” said Castro, standing erect, his voice rising as he spoke. “We will survive or die in the streets before we give in to capitalism. Socialism or Death. Resista. Resista. Resista. Socialism or Death.”

  “Perhaps they are the same thing,” said Rostnikov.

  Castro shook his head and examined Rostnikov.

  “You are mad,” said Castro.

  “I am tired. Perhaps I am also mad.”

  “Can you be bought, Russian?”

  Rostnikov said nothing.

  “No,” said Castro. “You can’t be bought. You can’t be persuaded. You can be killed. Anyone can be killed. I see in your eyes what you are thinking. You hide it well but yes, I can be killed too. Many have tried, many, but they are the ones who have died. What will be the outcome of this situation, Russian?”

  Rostnikov had to stand. He struggled out of his chair and steadied himself.

  “I will return to Moscow and give a full report to my superior.”

  “Colonel Snitkonoy,” said Castro. “Yes.”

  “A full report confirming the guilt of Igor Shemenkov. The colonel will bring it to the council. The council will consider and then decide to file my report quietly in a drawer. To do otherwise would mean another confrontation with you. You would deny it. We would look like bullies trying to give reasons for separating from what many believe is your inevitable downfall. And Shemenkov will remain here, useless to you.”

  “There are other scenarios,” said Castro.

  “I prefer not to consider them.”

  “One only then,” said Castro. “Shemenkov is freed. Our police are convinced by your arguments. Shemenkov returns to Russia believing that he has adequate cover. And then, perhaps, he has an accident.”