Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Lara still didn’t understand.

  Boris took a sip of tea. “My apartment phone is bugged. That’s how they knew when and where Musya and I were going to meet. They listened in when I called Musya and gave her instructions. You see, someone in an official capacity is either part of the gang or is being paid off. Without someone high up involved I don’t think they could tap my phone. In fact, I’m certain they couldn’t.”

  Her face went as white as frost. “Does… that mean they could have traced the source of the call?”

  His head hung in shame and he silently cursed himself. Why hadn’t he seen the dark clouds coming? Now they were caught in the middle of a vicious storm. This small room, such a haven before, could be the final trap.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you or our child.” He glanced at a clock. “If we hurry we can make it off the island before the bridges are raised. We can be out of the city in no time.”

  During the navigable months, the bridges across the Neva were raised every night between two and three in the morning. They had, Boris knew, just enough time to grab a few clothes, slip out of the apartment, take Sergei’s car and make it out of town.

  There was however, one more mission to accomplish before they left.

  “I have to call Musya.”

  He had to warn her to flee the apartment. Time was critical, as important as blood and air. As much as he wanted to, though, he couldn’t use the phone here. It would be too dangerous. If they hadn’t traced the source of his previous call to Musya, then they might this time.

  Boris plopped in the chair and rubbed his forehead. At each crossroad in his life he’d sensed which was the best direction; then, for the sake of others, he’d selected the opposite. All his life those decisions had been at his expense. Now, however, he’d begun to trust his heart and his head—and to let the two work as one. But at what cost? Shouldn’t he return to his old ways? After all, he’d begun to change and now others—Sergei, Musya, and Lara—were paying for his mistakes.

  He pushed his fingertips into his hair. “I was only trying to do the right things. And because of that people are…

  Lara took him by the arm. “Boris, time goes only in one direction.”

  “But—”

  “No. Please. I beg you. You made good decisions, Boris. And you’ll make others.

  The wrinkles on his forehead faded. He gazed at her with a gentle smile, this fragile-looking woman. There was no way he would let the slightest bit of harm come to her.

  He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. “We have to go,” he reiterated urgently.

  “Just let me throw a few things in a bag.” She rose and touched his hair. “I’ll bring books for me, writing paper for you. Oi, and my guitar. Boris, this will be wonderful. I’m glad we’re going. The countryside’s always so soothing.”

  “Perhaps it can be our… our honeymoon.”

  “Da, da!”

  While Lara—now more excited than scared—threw an extra change of clothes into a worn plastic bag, Boris edged up to the window. There were no lingering men in dark coats, no idling cars. Down the empty street, parked in an alley, was Sergei’s red car. If he and Lara could make it that far, they’d be safe. Then they’d cross the bridge and flee Leningrad. The very thought pacified him.

  Lara placed cognac, a hunk of cheese, a jar of pickles, and two small loaves of black bread in a string bag. Then she selected five books from a shelf, a couple of blue notebooks for Boris, and a pencil and pen.

  “Ready.”

  He lifted aside the muslin curtain, checked outside again. They started out, Boris taking the food and the guitar, Lara her clothes and books. She reached to turn off the overhead bulb.

  “No, don’t,” said Boris. “As long as that light’s on, they’ll think we’re up here.”

  They made their way down and passing into the night, hugged the shadows of the cold stone buildings. The closer they came to Sergei’s car, the faster they moved along the sidewalk. When they were less than a block away, they broke into a run. Finally, they ducked into the alley, threw their belongings through the broken windows of the Zhiguli, and jumped in. Boris jammed the keys in the ignition. Moving the stick shift into reverse, he checked the rearview mirror.

  Then froze.

  Right behind them was a telephone booth. He could attempt reaching Musya right now. He had to. He owed her that at least. A warning before he and Lara slipped out of town. It would only take a few seconds to call and…

  Lara grabbed the dashboard and spun around. “What’s the matter?”

  No, thought Boris, catching himself. They had to reach safety first.

  “I was just thinking about… about Musya,” he confessed. “I hope she’s all right.”

  “Me, too. Maybe you should call her now.”

  He stared in the rearview mirror at the reflection of the booth. Phoning would eat up precious seconds.

  He shook his head. “Later.”

  He backed into the street, then shifted the gears of the battered car into first. Lara turned and studied the road behind as Boris accelerated. Each moment they expected to see a car or two or three pop out of an alley, zoom after them, headlights like lasers seeking to destroy them. Nothing happened, however, as Boris drove down side streets; it was as if they were moving through an evacuated city, the buildings dark, the night streets void of life. As they sped along, the wind poured through the shattered windows. Lara pulled back her billowing hair and settled in her seat.

  “There’s no one.” She laughed. “Not a single car.”

  He smiled. “What time is it?”

  Lara held up her wrist and strained to see. “We have five minutes.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  Within seconds they emerged from a valley of blackened buildings and onto the University Embankment. Off to the left were the lights of the Palace Bridge and the Winter Palace. Boris thought they’d be too obvious there and turned right. Soon they were speeding over the Bridge of Lieutenant Schmidt, the sea air bathing them like wild water. Off to their right a procession of tugboats—their lights defining them in the night—had already lined up, waiting for the bridges to rise. Seconds after they reached the other side—the Red Fleet Embankment—lights on the bridge started to flash.

  “Up go the bridges,” said Lara. “Perfect timing.”

  A few blocks later they crossed the Moika Canal and neared the Kirov Theatre. On an empty street corner Boris spotted the familiar gray callbox with its red lettering. Automatically, he reduced his speed. Now they were safe. Lara saw the booth, too, and dug in her purse for a two-kopeck piece.

  “You’re right,” said Lara. “You have to try contacting her at least one more time.”

  He pulled over at the corner and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you.”

  From inside the glass booth, he grinned at Lara as his home phone rang and rang. Abruptly it was picked up.

  Surprised and relieved, Boris dropped in the coin and, with a rattle, the connection was made.

  “Musya?”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Musya? It’s me, Boris. Are… are you all right?”

  Heavy breathing came over the line.

  “Musya? It’s me, Boris. Speak—”

  “Boris?” she whispered, her voice quivering. “Just a minute. Let me… let me lock the door.”

  She must have placed the receiver on the couch because Boris couldn’t hear anything. Finally, she returned.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m fine. You got away safely? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Boris, I was so frightened I just ran and ran. I heard shots. Gunshots!”

  “I know. But I’m okay. I’m worried about you though. Did anyone hurt you?”

  “Nyet. Oi, Boris, I couldn’t remember where you wanted to meet. So I got out of the car. Someone was there, waiting
, and he—”

  “Waiting?” he asked. “Someone was already there, you mean?”

  She hesitated before saying, “Da, da.”

  So it was exactly as he thought. The phones were bugged; that’s how the man in the leather jacket had known where to go.

  “Oi,” continued Musya, “that man was there, the one in the leather jacket, and he started chasing me. It was awful, Boris! I ran around looking for you. I was so terrified.”

  “Just keep calm. I phoned you earlier, but you weren’t home yet.”

  “Was that you? I was coming up the stairs, but couldn’t open the door in time. I’m okay, though, Borinka. Really. I just want you. I want you so bad.”

  Boris shook his head as he talked. No. That was impossible. He wanted never to see her again—except in divorce court.

  “Listen, Musya,” he said. “There’s no time for talk. Things are much worse than I expected. I want you to leave. Go over to a friend’s. Go anywhere—just stay away from the apartment. You have to leave immediately. It’s not safe there.”

  “What?” The panic began to grow in her voice. “But what about you? Where will you be? Boris, you can’t leave me alone!”

  “I can’t come back. I’ll explain later.”

  “Boris, you can’t do this to me!” she shrieked.

  He glanced at Lara, who sat in the car. For an instant, he considered blurting the truth out to Musya. What a relief it would be to tell her that he didn’t love her, that he wanted a divorce, that everything from the color TV to the apartment was hers. But he restrained himself. Musya’s safety came first. He didn’t need to complicate the moment.

  “Boris, I love you. I love you so much and I want to know where you’re going.”

  “I—” He cut himself off. His destination had been on the edge of his lips. “Musya, I can’t tell you. The phones aren’t safe.”

  “What?” Her voice was flat, reflecting her disbelief. “The phones?”

  “Yes. Now just do as I say. Get out of there right away.”

  She cried, “But Boris, where are you going?”

  “Away.”

  “Boris!”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m… I’m just going to a place where I can think.”

  “Think? But—”

  “I have to go. Stay at Raya’s or Nina’s until I return. I’ll let you know when it’s safe.”

  “Boris!” she screamed.

  “Bye.”

  He slammed down the phone and leaned his aching body against the wall of the booth. You’re rid of her, he told himself. You never have to pretend again that you love her. He’d refused her demands to return, and that was the first break. He’d been clear in his warnings too.

  “That was hard,” he sighed as he joined Lara in the car.

  She wrapped an arm around him. “Is she all right?”

  He nodded. “She’s safe and that’s all I care about. I told her to go to a friend’s and stay there for a few days.”

  “Does she suspect anything?”

  “About us? No. I almost confessed, but there’ll be a better time. I just wanted to know she was safe.” He reached over and laid a hand on Lara’s leg. “She begged me to stay. It was awful. She wanted to know where I was going, but I wouldn’t tell her.”

  Even as he spoke, though, he wondered if he’d divulged too much. Perhaps he’d given her an invaluable clue. He’d admitted he was going to a place where he could think, and that would mean only one thing to her.

  No, Boris told himself as he started the car. Even if Musya had an inkling where he’d be, she’d never come out there. She was afraid of hounds and gypsies and Nazi ghosts.

  “Let’s go,” said Lara. “Our new lives are about to begin and I can’t wait.”

  “Neither can I.” Boris took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Onward…to Zarekino.”

  Chapter 25

  Musya laid the receiver in its cradle. She couldn’t believe her ears. Love, indeed, was blind. Boris loved her so much that he couldn’t see that all she wanted was for him to die. Only his murder, she knew, was going to free her. There was no other alternative. Not even divorce. Boris was so crazy about her that he probably wouldn’t notice if she hacked him in two with her own hands.

  “What did he say?”

  Cleaver in hand, Kyril stood in the kitchen doorway, naked from the waist up. A torn white sheet served as a bandage around his left arm.

  “Put that damn thing down,” she ordered. “He’s not coming here. At least not tonight. And sit back down. You shouldn’t be up yet, dusha maya.” My soul. “You need rest.”

  “Just tell me where he is!”

  “I can’t believe it. Boris is crazy. That man’s as crazy as Rasputin. And just as hard to kill. Go on, now, sit back down. You shouldn’t be up yet.”

  She bustled across the living room, plucked the cleaver from his hand, and took him gently by his good arm. Thick legs planted to the floor, he refused to budge.

  “Kyryozhinka, my love,” she said through gritted teeth. She leaned into him and he started to move. “That’s it.”

  She led him back into the kitchen. The chair at the small table was his destination, and she seated him, then poured him more black tea and sweetened it with globs of raspberry jam.

  “Drink this. All of it. And after that, another glass. You need to make up for the fluid you lost. I’m making good beet borscht, too, with lots of meat. I have some caviar too. With protein under your belt, you’ll soon have your strength back.”

  “Tell me what he said,” insisted Kyril.

  “Oi!” Her large cheeks puffed up, pressing her almond eyes smaller. “He still thinks you’re a member of that gang. Something about that man in the leather coat. Can you believe it? He called to warn me. We’re trying to kill him and… and…”

  Kyril fidgeted with the cotton bandage on his arm. Tightly wrapped, the cloth had a deep red stain at its heart that continued to grow.

  “How did you manage to marry someone so stupid?”

  She leaned against the narrow gas stove. “I… I don’t know. Of all the men in Leningrad… it was just my poor luck.”

  “He called to warn you?”

  Her head bobbed slowly up and down. Could it really be? Had she heard him right? Could he be tricking her?

  “He… he thinks the phone was bugged. He said this affair with the gang is really complicated.” It was either laugh or cry. She chose the former. “He said our line was tapped and that’s why there was trouble. Someone knew to wait for him at Revolution Square. So he called to tell me to leave the apartment and stay at a friend’s.”

  Kyril stared at the table top in disbelief. “We’re trying to kill him—and he calls because he’s worried about your safety? What a fool!”

  “I told you he was crazy for me.” Thoroughly amused, a fresh wave of laughter rolled out of her. “Oi, mamichka. When he looks at me with that puppy-dog face, I get sick at heart. His love for me positively radiates from those sappy blue eyes. He loves me as if I were a goddess.” She cupped her breasts with both hands, batted her eyes, and, giggling, said, “Me, me, me. I’m all he wants—and I can’t stand him!”

  “You should have been an actress, Musinka. You’re obviously very talented.”

  “I’ve convinced him, haven’t I? He really thinks I’m mad for him.” She sighed. “Well, if it gets us what we want. But, Kyril dear, with my talent I could have been a famous film star—the envy of every Soviet woman. Instead, well… I’m a nurse with a crazy husband and a wonderful cousin that I adore. Speaking of whom, let me see that arm. Has the bleeding stopped?”

  Upon their return to the apartment, Musya had carried extra lights into the kitchen and thoroughly examined the wound. To her relief, she found that the bullet had pierced his upper left arm at an angle, tearing through the skin as cleanly as a hole punched in paper. Without striking bone, it had skimmed a muscle then passed harmlessly out the side of his arm. Finding little damage—and relieved that th
ey wouldn’t have to call a physician—she cleansed Kyril’s arm and tore up a brand new Polish sheet to use as a bandage.

  “We might want to wrap some copper coins into the bandages to keep the swelling down,” she said. “But the bleeding seems to have stopped. Tomorrow I’ll steal some medication from the hospital.”

  Not interested, Kyril said, “So what are we supposed to do? Wait for him to expose himself?”

  “No. We can’t risk him catching on.”

  “So we search all of Leningrad? That’d be like looking for the wind in the field! We’d never…” He saw the teasing in her eye. “Eh? What’s this? You know. You know where he is, my little pussycat, don’t you?”

  Her voice rose in a tease. “Well, do you think they discovered America yesterday? It’s old news, I tell you. Of course I know.”

  Kyril’s fist slammed the table. “Tell me! I’m going to kill that horse’s ass!”

  “He didn’t say exactly, but he dropped a hint.

  I’m almost positive he’s gone to the same place he always runs to when he’s confused: Zarekino.”

  “The dacha, eh?” Kyril pushed himself to his feet. “Good. Let’s go. We can leave in fifteen minutes and probably still beat him.”

  “No. You can’t. You’ve been shot, Kyril, and you have to regain your strength. You should eat a good meal, sleep some. You’re too weak to go now.”

  “Musya, I—”

  “Besides, it’ll be morning in a few hours. We might as well wait. We could go out in the afternoon.”

  “That won’t do. Boris might see us coming.”

  “Yes, but that way we could be out there and back by sunset.”

  Kyril shook his head. “If we don’t start now, we’ll have to wait till dark tomorrow.”

  “No, Kyril,” she said with a quavering voice. “We don’t want to go to Zarekino at night. Believe me. It’s very strange. That place… that place is a breeding ground of ghosts.”

  “Musya, you ridiculous cow.”

  “I am not!” she squealed. “Many people died at Zarekino during the war. During the Revolution too. The peasants strung up the Prince from the grand staircase. Hanged him right there. And… and there’s this gypsy woman—she killed all these Fascists, knifed them to death. And she has all these hounds. Wild hounds. They howl at night.”