A Whisper to the Living

13

“Once more I tell you, I do not know who killed your boxer, but I do know it was not your giant,” said Paulinin. “He was there, but DNA insists on another wielder of the weapon.”

“You are sure?”

There was a long pause and then Paulinin said, “When have you known me to speak without certainty?” He hung up before Iosef could say more.

Then Iosef said, “Who do you know who did not like Fedot Babinski?”

“His wife,” said Zelach. “Her knuckles.”

“Knuckles?” asked Ivan.

At the entrance gate of Petrovka stood a young man who held on to the fence’s iron bars and shifted from one leg to the other. He had told the guards whom he wanted to see, though he did not know the man’s name. The young man did know from Elena that she worked in the Office of Special Investigations. Therefore, he had asked for the boss of that department.

“What do you want?” asked the guard, who looked remarkably like one of the men who read the news on Russia Today television.

The guard stayed well back when he asked the question and waited for an answer.

“To give him something of great value. It is my civic duty. Tell him it involves the man from Gasprom in whom he is interested.”

“Wait.”

The guard moved away, replaced by another guard who looked like a little boy with a big gun.

Tyrone had done his best to dress respectably, which meant he had to buy new clothes with some of the money he got from the British journalist. He had been given the money in the hallway after he turned over the tape. He did not say it was the only copy, and it was not. In his pocket was another copy.

Tyrone’s request was brought to the Yak’s assistant, Pankov, who weighed it carefully and moved to the window where he had a partial view of the gate. The young man looked harmless, but who knew these days? Two Chechen suicide bombers had attempted to enter Petrovka in the last three years. Neither had succeeded, but there might always be a first. The young man seemed to be in some pain, but that might be Pankov’s imagination.

“Wait.”

Pankov rubbed his palms against the sides of his pants to keep from revealing his perspiring hands. He had worked for Colonel Yaklovev for five years, yet the prospect of entering the office with news that the Yak might not like still terrified Pankov.

He knocked and was immediately told to enter. Behind the desk directly in front of him sat Igor Yaklovev under a portrait of Lenin that one might be forgiven for thinking was a portrait of the Yak himself.

“What?”

“A young man wants to see you,” said Pankov. “He claims to have something you would like to have, related to the man from Gasprom.”

The Yak pondered the situation for a moment. In his three years as Director of the Office of Special Investigations, no one had ever simply come to the gate seeking him.

“Have him thoroughly searched, every thread of his clothing and every tooth in his mouth and all the recesses of every orifice of his body.”

“Yes, sir,” said Pankov. “Then should I bring him here?”

“No,” said the Yak. “Turn him loose naked and tell him never to return.”

“I-” Pankov began.

“It is a joke, Pankov,” said the Yak with some exasperation.

“Oh. . ”

Pankov had never before heard the Yak utter anything that even sounded like a joke.

“Bring him,” said the Yak, and Pankov hurried out the door.

Ten minutes later the young man was ushered into the office of Igor Yaklovev.

“You have been beaten,” the Yak said to the boy who stood before his desk, “beaten by professionals.”

“By people who wanted to destroy what I have for you,” the young man said.

The boy was skinny, pigeon breasted. He had made some attempt to pat down his wild hair, but that had only made it worse.

Tyrone would have liked to sit. Sleep would be even better, but the man who looked like Lenin did not offer him a chair.

“Your name?”

“Tyrone.”

“Your real name.”

Tyrone hesitated.

“It would not be difficult to find out what it is without your cooperation.”

“Sergei Bresnechov.”

“Sergei Bresnechov, what do you have for me?”

“A recording of Pavel Petrov gladly confessing to murder.”

“Let me see it.”

“It is not on my person,” said Tyrone. “I am not a fool.”

“What do you want?” asked the Yak.

“Three thousand euros or one hundred and eighty-five thousand rubles.”

“I think you want something else in addition to money,” said the Yak.

“I want to work for you, handle all your electronic needs, you know, listening to your enemies, uncovering secrets they think are hidden on their computers, things like that.”

“And what would you want to be paid for this service?”

“We would negotiate it job by job.”

“Sit.”

Tyrone sat as if he felt no pain.

“If this recording is authentic,” said the Yak, “we can negotiate your terms. Does anyone else have a copy of this confession?”

“An English journalist named Iris Templeton thinks she has, but she will discover that she has a blank tape.”

“She will be very angry when she discovers the truth,” said the Yak.

“I hope so. Elena Timofeyeva works in your department.”

“Yes.”

“I have done a few things for her in the past. I do not think she will like what I have done to the English journalist.”

The Yak could see the hint of adoration behind the young man’s languid look. Such adoration might well be of value in the future.

“I will take care of that,” said the Yak. “The recording?”

“You have the frightened little man outside your office be at bottom of the escalator of the Olegskaya Metro station at exactly ten tomorrow morning.”

“I have no intention of betraying you,” said the Yak. “It is far easier to simply buy you, but if you wish to play games, I will oblige.”

Tyrone rose from the chair with some difficulty. His head still ached and dizziness prevailed when he stood.

“Are you all right?” asked the Yak.

“Perfectly,” said Tyrone, though he ached from deep bruises on his face, back, and stomach.

Something came to his mouth and Tyrone was certain that if he spat, it would be bloody.

“No more games after tomorrow morning,” said the Yak in warning as Tyrone crossed the room and opened the door.

“None,” he said. “I know how easy it would be for you to find me. I have left a gift to prove my loyalty.”

“A gift?”

“Maybe we should call it a good-faith offering. You will know about it soon.”

“I look forward to it with great anticipation,” the Yak said quite flatly. “And now, work.”

Tyrone left and Igor Yaklovev folded his hands and said, “Very easy.”

In the apartment in which Vera Korstov sat talking to Albina Babinski, Vera was trying to get the much larger woman to agree to confess to the murder of her husband. It was proving to be a most difficult task.

“It was not murder,” said Vera, cup of tea in her lap.

They were having a very civilized discussion of the consequences of Albina having cracked her husband’s skull with a blunt instrument.

“It was murder,” Albina said, looking at the knuckles of her hands. “He was not a bad man. He was not a good man. He was not a good husband.”

“. .and he killed Lena Medivkin,” added Vera.

“And he killed Lena Medivkin,” Albina repeated.

“If you do not tell the police what happened, Ivan Medivkin will suffer, go to prison, possibly be executed.”

“True, but if I tell, I will suffer. Would you like more tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“I have killed once. I think I can kill again. Let me show you something.”

She stood and crossed the room to the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. Then she brought something out. It was a gun.

“I know almost nothing about guns,” Albina said. “Fedot said it was always loaded, that all one had to do was point it and pull the trigger. It was not unusual for him to take it out and aim it at my face.”

“Why did you stay with him?” Vera asked, trying not to look at the gun.

“I do not know,” said Albina, returning to the chair directly in front of her visitor. “I never considered leaving, probably never would have, had I not followed Fedot to that hotel.”

“I think we should finish our tea and call the police, or perhaps we should simply go to them.”

“I know a bit about prisons,” said Albina, looking first at the gun in her hand and then nowhere. “I know what will happen to me. I will be destroyed, violated, my body and mind insulted by the hands and tongues of foul-smelling strangers.”

“It is the right thing to do.”

“The right thing?” asked Albina “What do I care about doing the right thing? I care only at this point for staying alive.”

Vera put down her teacup and said, “I have changed my mind. A little more tea would be nice.”

“No,” said Albina, standing, weapon now aimed at her visitor.

“Neighbors will hear gunshots,” said Vera.

“In this outpost of the indifferent, no one will care. I can kill you and wrap you in something, maybe this carpet, and carry you out tonight. I can carry your body to the Metro station very late tonight, and when no one is looking I will sit you up on the bench at the entrance and leave with the carpet. The problem is that I like you. You have stuck by your man to the point at which your loyalty is about to lead to your death.”

“It would be very nice if we could think of a solution other than your shooting me and carrying my body through the streets of Moscow.”

“I am too tired to consider options.”

“Since my life depends on such considerations, let me present a few problems with your plan.”

“A few problems?”

Vera should have noticed long ago, but the woman had kept it covered by a shroud of pseudo-or perhaps real grief: Albina Babinski was drunk.

“Yes,” said Vera, still seated. “We seem to be getting along quite nicely. We might become friends. You do not really want to see me dead on your floor.”

“No, but I probably will not be haunted by the image, and if I am, so be it. You will join the legion of the dead who invade my dreams.”

Vera considered throwing the cup still half-full of tea at the head of Albina Babinski. It would almost certainly fail to save Vera, but there seemed to be nothing else to do. Albina raised the gun in a shaking hand and aimed it at Vera. The distance was but half a dozen feet.

“I cannot do it,” Albina said, now cradling the gun as if it were a newborn baby.

It was at this point that the door to the apartment flew open, destroyed at the hinges and locks. Both women turned toward the noise and witnessed a giant filling the doorway. He strode in. Albina fired at him.

“Ivan, no,” said Vera.

He pushed her to the side and advanced farther toward Albina Babinski.

Vera turned and leaped at the woman with the gun who was about to shoot again at Ivan Medivkin. Before Albina could fire off another round, Vera sank her teeth into the wrist of the arm with the gun. Both women tumbled backward, Vera on top, Albina letting out a scream of pain and dropping the gun.

Vera picked up the gun and turned to look at the Giant, who sat on the floor panting for air, blood pouring from a wound in his neck and another in his chest. She could see now that he was manacled.

“Are you all right?” asked Ivan.

“Yes, but you are not.”

“I am sorry, so sorry,” Albina said as she wept.

At that point, Iosef Rostnikov and Zelach thundered into the room. Iosef held a gun in his hand.

“Medivkin, you are a fool,” said Iosef.

“We might have been too late,” said Ivan.

Zelach stepped forward to put handcuffs on Albina Babinski, who held out her wrists dutifully and said, “My wrist is bleeding.”

“We will fix it,” said Zelach.

“I would not have shot her, you know, but when he came rushing at me-”

“No, I do not know,” said Zelach, helping the woman to her feet.

Vera and Iosef knelt at Ivan’s side. There was no point in trying to help him to his feet. He was far too big and solid.

Iosef had his cell phone out and called for an ambulance.

“Do not die,” said Vera. “I will not forgive you if you die.”

“I will not die,” said Ivan.

Ivan, his eyelids now very heavy, considered the likelihood of his own demise and gave himself odds of five to two in favor of survival.

Iris Templeton was packed and ready to go less than an hour after the attack by the two men. Elena stood at the door watching her.

“You have what you need?” asked Elena.

“More than enough,” said Iris, surveying her closed suitcase.

She had given her statement to two detectives, one in a leather jacket and the other in a zippered jacket that threatened to burst under the pressure of the man’s distinct belly. Even before the two detectives, who were not from the Office of Special Investigations, released her, Iris had begun writing the story in her head. It would be in four parts. First, the prostitution ring in Moscow; second, the murders of the prostitutes and the pimp; third, the attack on her own life by Pavel Petrov’s men; and fourth, the full exposé of Petrov himself.

The interviews with the prostitutes were on the miniature recorder that now rested in her suitcase, along with the recording of Pavel’s confession of murder. She did not want it or the tape she had purchased from Tyrone to be confiscated at the airport. Most of all she did not want Petrov to make another attempt on her life.

“I am ready,” she announced.

“You will wish to see Inspector Tkach?” asked Elena.

“Not necessarily.”

“I see.”

“Do you? I think you see a cold-hearted professional woman who has a great story and has used a handsome Russian policeman for fun and profit.”

“Used?”

“As he used me for refuge from a past he chose not to disclose.”

The door opened and the two detectives to whom Elena and Iris had given their report on what had taken place reentered the hotel room.

The one in the leather jacket wore his thick dark hair brushed back. He wore a smile that suggested he found the world and its vagaries amusing.

“We will have to search your suitcase,” the one in the leather jacket said.

“Why?”

“Orders,” said the man as the other detective, the one with the belly, moved to the bed and began to go through it.

“Be careful with that please,” said Iris.

Elena and Iris knew full well what the two men were looking for. Word had somehow gotten to them. Their orders were clear: find the tape.

They took only minutes to find the miniature tape recorder and the tape inside. They were tucked into the suitcase lining. The detective with the belly began to play the tape and immediately knew it was what he was looking for.

“We must take this,” said the detective in the leather jacket. “It will be returned to you.”

“I am sure it will,” said Iris.

“We must also inspect your person,” said leather jacket.

“I can do that,” said Elena, stepping forward.

Leather jacket hesitated, a hand cupping his chin, and then said, “I will have to do that myself.”

“I protest,” said Iris.

“I understand,” said the detective as his hands went over her body from neck to toes.

When he finished, he stood.

“Have a safe trip back to England,” said leather jacket. “And come back soon.”

“Thank you,” said Iris, trying to control her anger as the men left the hotel room.

She checked her watch as she put her clothes back in the suitcases. “They were neater than I expected.”

“They took your tape,” said Elena.

“A copy rests uncomfortably wrapped in tissue between my legs, where I hoped that I would not be touched. There, I am ready to go.”

Sasha had shaved hurriedly and managed to nick himself twice, small nicks, one just under his nose, the other on his neck. He was at Petrovka looking for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. When Sasha reached the door of the space shared by the detectives of the Office of Special Investigations, he was startled to see Tyrone, Sergei Bresnechov, coming down the stairs.

Sasha and Elena’s plan had been to find Rostnikov and suggest that he put the boy who called himself Tyrone into seclusion to protect him from Pavel Petrov. Sasha crossed the hall quickly to the Chief Inspector’s office, knocked, got no reply, and entered to a sight that made his knees very weak and his stomach threaten to surrender.

There sat his mother and his wife.

“What?” he asked.

“We are here to see Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” said Lydia.

“Why?”

“To determine if you merit yet another chance,” said Sasha’s mother.

Maya sat, hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were an unwelcome trespasser.

“Go away,” said Lydia, sweeping him away with her arm.

A dazed Sasha Tkach backed out of the office unsure of whether he had witnessed reality or a hazy dream. He considered opening the door again but decided to go across the hall to his desk.

Could it be true? Has my mother pulled a plum from the pie?