Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “He had a gun!” shouted Kyril, holding his wounded arm.

  “I’m so sorry, my little pet.”

  “Where did that idiot get a gun?”

  “I… I don’t know! He’s never owned one. I don’t know what’s happened to Boris, what he thinks he was doing! How could someone do this to you? Oi, I hate that man. I hate him!”

  Sniffling, she steered through a series of back streets until she circled around and came to Prospekt Maxim Gorky. She glanced to her left, saw the distant lights of jeeps four or five blocks down toward Revolution Square. Turning right, she followed the arching avenue around Lenin Park, past the metro stop, past the zoo.

  “Does it hurt, my love?”

  “Of course it hurts!”

  They passed beneath a street light and the right shoulder of his leather jacket glowed a sticky red. A bullet had pierced the upper half of Kyril’s left arm, and blood was gushing from the wound. He’d dropped the pistol on the floor before him and now clutched his torn leather jacket and arm with his right hand.

  “Just keep pressure on it,” said Musya, beginning to calm herself.

  “What do you think I’m doing, trying to suck the blood out?”

  “Nyet, I… I…”

  “If only I’d known that bastard had a gun. It was supposed to be an easy kill.”

  “Tss-tss. Of course it was. Just relax, dusha maya.” My soul. “Don’t upset yourself. I have my medical kit back at home. I’ll take care of you. Everything will be fine.”

  “I might have hit him, too.” He blinked, his dark eyes heavy, his mind sluggish. “I… I don’t know.”

  She passed the Exchange on the tip of Vasilevsky Island, then continued onto the Palace Bridge and over the Neva. The Winter Palace loomed to her left, and she raced between that and the Admiralty, swerved right, then turned left at the beginning of Nevsky Prospekt. Not too fast, she told herself. The street was empty and a speeding car would be an easy target for the militsiya. It wasn’t too far now. They’d be home in minutes.

  “Why didn’t I divorce him years ago? Why didn’t I just forget about that stupid apartment?” She slammed her palm against the steering wheel, then wiped her nose again. “If Boris comes back, I’ll kill him with my own hands.”

  There were only several busses and a few scattered pedestrians as they sped down Nevsky. Just before the Anichkov Bridge, Musya turned left along the Fontanka Canal. She drove a few meters before pulling to the curb in front of her apartment building.

  “You just get me bandaged up and…” His mouth was moving as if it were wired shut. “… and I’ll take care of your husband. This time for sure.”

  “Not without my help,” she snapped. “Just the thought of it calms me down. Better yet, let me kill him myself. Let me squish the life right out of him.”

  That would be her salvation. That was the way she would avenge what Boris had done to Kyril. The excitement glowing across her high cheeks, she turned to her lover.

  “Well, what do you think? That’s a great idea, eh? I’ll kill Boris myself and—”

  The body in the seat next to her was slumped against the door. She touched him, felt no life.

  “Kyril!” she screamed. “Kyril!”

  Chapter 22

  Boris spotted his only chance to escape the militsiya. The triangular strip of land, a separate island of Lenin Park, right across the street from Revolution Square. He dashed across Kirovsky Prospekt, leaping over two sets of streetcar rails. Reaching the sidewalk, the gun in the plastic bag craddled against his side, he dove into a stand of bushes. A yellow jeep screamed around the corner, two men in uniforms in the front seat. They saw him, Boris was certain. Get rid of the gun, he told himself. Hurl it as far away as possible. If they find you with that gun, it’ll be Siberia.

  Still as a leaf, he peered out from the bush as the first, second, and third jeep raced toward the square. He was positive one of the men looked right at him, but none of the jeeps stopped. Blue lights flashing, the three vehicles continued to the far end of Revolution Square.

  Boris headed north. The militsiya would split up, circle around, search the entire area. To his right loomed the October Revolution Museum and the stark minarets of the closed mosque. Two more jeeps were coming down another street. Gospodi. He was caught between two fires. Hunkered over, he tore from tree to bush to tree to bench. Lonely paths and withering autumn plants fell behind. Avoiding the glowing lamp posts, he reached the north end of the park and hid behind a bush. Glancing back, he saw headlights bounce upward and jag into the sky as a jeep drove over a curb and into the park. Like a hungry shark, the militsiya vehicle passed down a slowly curving path, stalking its prey.

  Across the street he spotted his salvation: the Gorkovskaya metro station, there in the main part of Lenin Park, its lights a beacon of safety. He looked back. The headlight-eyes of the militsiya jeep wove back and forth even closer along the winding path. Ahead of him lay the empty, well-lit Kirovsky Prospekt. Dashing across it would be just as dangerous as leaping a canyon. But he had no choice. He had to make the move.

  Behind him the sweeping headlights followed a path in another direction. This was his chance. He edged forward—at a slow pace. There was no way to do this but be completely obvious. He mustn’t arouse suspicion. It took every bit of his energy, though, to move his feet in a normal rhythm and not to cower. It seemed a miracle when he reached the other side, where he hurried on to the metro station.

  He dug in his pockets and came up with a two-kopeck piece, only enough for a phone call. His heart nearly froze. Of all the times to be without proper change. Frantic, he dug in every pocket, front and back, searching in vain for a five-kopeck coin.

  He glanced to the top of the escalator, where a blonde woman in a black uniform and red cap was dozing in a chair. His muscles tensed as he charged the turnstyle, then glided over it effortlessly. But when he landed at the top of the escalator, his foot struck the slotted metal step just before it split in two; he lunged for the handrail. He caught himself and hung on. The train platform, buried four or five stories beneath the swamps of Leningrad, was just a dot at the bottom. With his balance regained, he rushed two steps at a time down the moving stairs, his eyes all the while focused on that tiny bit of landing below.

  A rumbling rose from beneath like a great mechanical dragon coming to life. A train was pulling in. He cursed the subway for its incredible depth and started leaping down three and four steps at a time. By the time he reached the platform, two passengers had exited the train, and he heard the fateful recording.

  “Astarozhna, dveri zakryvayutsya, sleduyuchaya stantsiya…” Caution the doors are closing, the next station will be…

  He dove for the car, landed inside on his stomach just as the double doors slammed mercilessly shut behind him. As the subway carried him beneath the waters of Leningrad, he raised his head and grinned up at the scowling face of a woman.

  A scarf wrapped tightly over her head and around her wrinkled face, she shouted, “Young man, decent people just don’t act like that. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Chapter 23

  “It’s just shock,” sobbed Musya. “A terrible shock to your system. Everyone would feel faint. You’re all right, golubchik moi.” My little pigeon. “Trust me. I’m a nurse. When you’re on the mend, I’ll find Boris and I’ll murder him. I’ll twist that little head of his until it snaps off!’’

  Her cries had roused Kyril from his deathly state. The stress of the bullet wound and the blood loss caused him to faint, and Musya only quieted herself when she saw his eyes blink and his body stir. She rushed around the car to the passenger door and with a little coaxing was able to stand him on his feet.

  Now, her coat on his shoulders to hide his bloodied arm, they were climbing the marble steps to her apartment.

  “You’ve… always been good to me, Musya,” Kyril managed to say.

  “And I always will be, golubchik.”

  She pecked her lips
on his forehead. What had begun as an innocent escape into a ravine by two children, then progressed into youthful lust, was now, she knew, locked in the dependency of adulthood.

  Musya paused at the first floor, allowed Kyril to catch his breath, then led the way around to the next flight. At least, she noted, the rest of the tenants seem to have settled in for the night. The last thing she needed was a snoopy neighbor.

  That, however, was exactly what happened on the next floor. She was leading Kyril around to the last flight of stairs to her apartment when a door cracked open. Immediately she loosened her grip on Kyril and tried to put distance between them. She was, after all, still a married woman and she mustn’t provoke gossip.

  “Who goes about there this time of night?” snapped a scratchy voice.

  She froze, then pushed Kyril upward. Turning, she saw a pale face, drawn with wrinkles and age, poking out of a door. It was Yuri Gennadiovich, the old man who lived beneath her, now emerging like a sleepy badger. He squinted. Without his glasses, though, he couldn’t recognize her even as she walked over to him. Not sure who was approaching, he flinched and retreated a bit.

  “It’s me, tovarisch.” Comrade. “Musya Aleksandrovna.” Her mind raced for the right words as she stopped outside his door. “What an evening I’ve had! My rogue of a husband and some friends of his got so drunk that I had to go pick him up and bring him home! Can you imagine? I had to get dressed and go out at this time of night. It’s shameful, don’t you think, that a husband acts that way?”

  The old eyes pinched together into little slits. He studied her, then stared at the stumbling figure on the stairs. “Drunk, you say? I suppose he has friends coming over to drink more and make a racket. Well, let me tell you, Musya Aleksandrovna, this hooliganism must stop right now!”

  She glanced behind her. Kyril struggled on, pulling himself up by the railing. If only he doesn’t fall, she thought, then perhaps I’ll be able to pull off this charade.

  “Nyet. There’ll be no noise. Look,” she said waving her hand toward Kyril. “Boris, my poor inebriated husband…” She hesitated until she was convinced the old man couldn’t identify Kyril. “… can hardly walk. You think he’ll make any noise when he can’t even stand? Don’t worry, I won’t let him make any—”

  Yuri Gennadiovich leaned toward her. “No drunkards? No loud party tonight?”

  Her hand to her bosom, Musya pulled away in shock. “For the lord’s sake, Yuri Gennadiovich, what are you saying? Of course not. We have no hooligans in our circle. You should be ashamed of suggesting such a thing!”

  “Well, go to bed. All decent folk should be asleep by now.”

  “Da, da,” agreed Musya. “And don’t you worry. You won’t hear a chirp from our apartment. Good night!”

  Yuri Gennadiovich grunted as he sealed his door. When he secured his latch, Musya clasped her chest and sighed. Then she bounded up the steps as fast as her heavy legs could carry her. She found Kyril leaning against her apartment door.

  “I’m here, my love.” As she pulled the key from her purse, she heard ringing from inside the apartment. “And everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Hurry,” he gasped. “The telephone.”

  “What?”

  “The phone—it’s ringing.”

  “Gospodi, who could be calling at this time of…”She jabbed the key in the lock. “That’s Boris! That son of a…”

  It had to be him.

  Kyril coughed. “Hurry,” he rasped. “Before he hangs up. It has rung many times already.”

  Chapter 24

  Boris stood in the phone booth, the two-kopeck piece in his fingers. If only Musya were there, if only she answered, then he’d drop in the money, complete the connection, and try to make sense of this chaos. He’d ridden the metro to Nevsky, then caught the very last train to Vasileovstrovskaya station. Emerging from underground, he’d found the very first phone. He had to call home, test his theory, but Musya wasn’t there. The phone in his apartment continued to ring. Just a few more times. Hang on. Perhaps any second she’ll come rushing in.

  With the immediate danger over, Boris had begun to put the pieces together. He was certain the gang hadn’t followed Musya to Revolution Square or even caught her and forced her to lead them. Otherwise, she would not have been running around so hysterically. They would have held her, used her as bait to draw Boris to his death. That left only one other explanation, and at that hideous realization he shivered.

  He couldn’t believe it. Never in his life had he imagined anything so horrific. He’d heard of cases like this, but never thought it possible that he’d be the intended victim of such a calculated murder. That the man in the leather jacket had been there, waiting to kill him at Revolution Square, only confirmed his suspicions. Now everything made sense. If only he’d understood sooner. How else could that man have known exactly when and where Boris would show up? How else could Sergei and he have been such easy targets at the monastery? Terror and shock overwhelmed his body like a sudden fever. How had he fallen into this nightmare? When would it end?

  Boris slammed down the phone. No answer. He stuffed the coin back in his pocket and moved on. There was someone more important to consider—Lara. His whole world would come to an end if anything happened to her. With a fresh charge of fear-driven energy, he tore out of the phone booth and across Vasilevsky Island. He had suddenly decided that he and Lara had to leave the city. Fortunately, he knew exactly where they could hide.

  Minutes later, he entered her courtyard and made his way up the steep, dark steps. At the top, her door was pulled open even before he had time to knock. She’d been watching from the window and seen him run down the empty street and slip into the building. In anticipation, she’d placed a kettle of water on the hot plate.

  “Come in. Hurry.”

  When he was inside, she poked her head outside and looked down the stairs. Satisfied that no neighbors had spied them, she eased shut her door. Her large green eyes froze when she spotted the shredded plastic bag.

  “Bozhe, what happened? You weren’t hurt again, were you?”

  Wounded? Again? He touched his arm. That’s right. A bullet at the monastery had grazed his arm. He’d forgotten. He was just so afraid for Lara that he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “Nyet, nyet.”

  The steaming kettle of water began to moan. As if it were some bratty child, Lara tried to wave it away with the back of her hand.

  “Boris, what happened?” Her fingers reached into his tangled hair. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  He caught her hand and kissed it. “I’m fine. But we have to get out of here right away. Tonight.”

  Lara pulled out a chair and pressed down on his shoulder. “Sit. Now, tell me…” Her mind reeled through the possibilities and she guessed. “Were you followed?”

  “Oi!” He hadn’t checked. Could he possibly have been so stupid as to lead someone right here? “No. No, I’m sure of it.” No one could have jumped on the subway train after him.

  Even as he spoke, though, Lara slipped like a secret agent over to the edge of the window. Satisfied that no suspicious men lingered in the doorways and alleys of the surrounding buildings, she crossed to the hot plate. She diluted a glass of tea concentrate with boiling water, placed in two spoonfuls of sugar, then upon reflection, added a third. She set the glass in front of Boris just as he unwrapped the gun and laid it out like a dead fish. As if the weapon were a smelly, evil catch, Lara shrunk back.

  Boris spilled a bit of the steaming tea into a saucer, swirled it around to cool it.

  “If I hadn’t had that, I’d be dead,” he said, nodding at the gun. “As soon as I reached the park I knew something was wrong.” He slurped the tea in the saucer.

  The whole sequence of events flashed through his mind, and he recounted everything to Lara.

  Her eyes wide in fear, she said, “Oi, Boris. We have to go to the authorities at once.”

  “Nyet! You don’t understa
nd.”

  That was the least safe place they could go. He couldn’t believe what a shambles their lives had become. Everything was supposed to have been straightened out by now. Instead, he and Lara and their unborn child were in more jeopardy than before. It could mean the end of all his dreams.

  “Boris, you smuggled some stolen goods. But you can make amends for that. The authorities will be lenient, I’m sure, if you’re honest with them. You must go to the militsiya. Sergei’s been killed, who knows what’s happened to Musya, and they’re still after you.”

  He took her hand and kissed her slender fingers. With eyes sagging from sadness and lack of sleep, he gazed up at her.

  “Lara, you don’t understand. Someone’s trying to kill me, but I can’t involve the militsiya because… because they’re already involved. Some official knows about the smuggling operation, and that I—”

  “What? Boris, that’s impossible!” Anger flashed in her eyes and she turned away, not wanting to accept his words. “There has to be a mistake.”

  “No, it’s true, Lara. That’s the only logical explanation to this nightmare. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, but now you’re in danger, too. We have to leave here at once—leave Leningrad and hope things settle down. I know where we can go.”

  Her face blanched as she dropped into the chair next to him.

  “The militsiya? Involved? Oi, Boris, are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. It’s the only way the man in the leather jacket could have known.”

  She stared at him. “Known what?”

  “Where Musya and I were meeting, of course.” He let go of her hand. “You see, I called her, gave her exact directions, and told her when to meet me. And when I arrived, that man was already there. Musya wasn’t followed. Otherwise they would have caught her and held her. I’m certain she arrived and that man was already there. He knew, Lara. He knew where Musya and I were going to meet. He was just waiting for us.”