Blood and Rubles

TWELVE

Arkady Zelach had a headache. He wasn’t sure whether it was from his old injury, the fact that he had now gone a full twenty-four hours without sleep, or the presence of the screeching woman on whose shoulder a baby slept.

Colonel Snitkonoy himself had called to congratulate him on saving the life of Sasha Tkach and apprehending all three of the killer children. Porfiry Petrovich had done the same and told him to wrap up the paperwork and get home for some well-deserved sleep.

Zelach had already called his mother for the third time. He had called her the night before to say that he would be home slightly after midnight. Then he had called her to say that Sasha Tkach had been injured and that he would have to work at least a few more hours. After that Zelach went to the hospital to be sure Sasha was all right and then back to the district station where the three boys were being held. Their mother was waiting for him along with a skinny man with curly black hair and the face of a night animal with long teeth. The man’s name, he was told, was Lermonov. Lermonov was a lawyer, a new and rising breed who knew there was no longer a viable written criminal justice code. Lermonov and others like him jumped in where the Parliament feared to walk. The new lawyers quoted precedent, old laws, new laws, invented laws. Each and every one of the hundreds of mafias had its own lawyer or two or three. Lermonov was sure he was on the way up, that some well-connected businessman or high-ranking mafia member would recognize his ability and move him into a position of power. Meanwhile he made the best of things, representing whoever called on his services, which he hawked with business cards inserted into the mail slots along the streets of the vast neighborhood in which the Chazovs and others who might get into trouble with the police lived. The five hundred cards had cost him nothing. They were the price of representing a printer named Kholkov, who had set up business in a Gorky Street basement with no permit from the police or the local mafia. Lermonov had simply made one small bribe to a police sergeant on Kholkov’s behalf as well as the promise of an immediate substantial percentage of Kholkov’s business for the mafia, which in turn promised to give Kholkov customers.

It was because of one of his cards that Elvira Chazova had called on him in his tiny apartment-office. He had taken on her cause immediately. He took on all causes immediately as long as there was a payment up front. Elvira, child in her arms, belly full, had pleaded with him to take on the legal protection of her children in the name of mercy and decency. Elvira was a fraud. Lermonov saw through her and demanded cash or goods. Elvira had given cash, and now Lermonov and his client sat across from Zelach in the large, echoing room. Zelach’s head ached. He needed help. Paperwork and screaming mothers and insistent lawyers were beyond him. He sat quite still, back straight, and said little.

“The boys you are holding are completely innocent,” Lermonov said. “In fact, they are heroes. Just before you came rushing out to attack them, Mrs. Chazova’s boys had beaten off two older boys, who were attacking the policeman. The Chazovas drove them away and were tending to the policeman when you came out and started to beat and handcuff them.”

“No,” said Zelach, determined to show no signs of wavering, which he accomplished by conjuring up the image of Tkach on the sidewalk and one of the boys about to strike him with a brick. “It was they.”

Elvira Chazova wailed. The wail echoed off the walls of the interrogation room, which were badly in need of paint. The wail woke the baby in her arms, who began to cry.

Zelach fought the urge to cradle his head in his hands. His eyes met those of the lawyer.

“How can you be sure?” said the lawyer.

“I saw them standing over him. There were no others on the street. Sash … the fallen officer told me it was they who attacked him.”

Lermonov sighed patiently and spoke over the crying and wailing.

“He was struck down from behind. He saw a trio of small boys armed with sticks and stones, small boys who had driven off his attackers. Heroes. They should get medals.”

“They did it,” Zelach repeated. “And they have done it before.”

“The court will not agree,” said Lermonov, rising. “I demand that you release the children into the custody of their mother. They are her sole support.”

“No,” Zelach repeated.

“You will lose your job over this,” said Lermonov, pointing a finger at the weary and confused detective.

“I am tired. I have a report to write and I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” said Zelach, unable now to keep his hand from moving to his throbbing forehead.

“This is-” Lermonov started but was cut off by Zelach, who suddenly rose, his chair falling backward to the floor.

“Out,” he said. “Now. Both of you.”

“Nazi,” shouted Elvira Chazova. “Communist. Dog.”

“Out,” Zelach repeated, starting to move around the table.

Lermonov grabbed Elvira Chazova’s arm and led her to the door as Zelach slouched forward. The baby screamed. Elvira Chazova pointed back at Zelach and cursed him. Lermonov said something, but Zelach couldn’t understand him. And then they were gone. Zelach’s headache was still there, but his tormentors were no longer in his face. He waited a few minutes before he left the room in search of an aspirin.

Natalya Dokorova sat with her hands folded, a large shopping bag at her side, listening to the explanation of the woman in the suit who told her that there was no appeal beyond this office. The treasure her brother had accumulated would not be returned, and she would almost certainly receive compensation only in the form of an increase in her pension.

Natalya bewailed her fate and the evil being done to her brother’s life’s work, but the young woman behind the desk was unmoved.

“You may leave, Natalya Dokorova,” the woman said. “When there is anything else, we will tell you.”

Natalya rose, tired from her efforts, sure that she had lost. She picked up her shopping bag and said a silent “Thank God” as she went out the door. In four days she would be in Germany. A day later she would be in England. She had prepared for this day even before the death of her brother. She had removed a number of items from the treasure room-only things that could fit into her shopping bag-and she had moved them to the apartment of her cousin, who considered the items a clutter of junk.

For one of the things she carried in her shopping bag at the very moment an English dealer in rare objects had offered a small fortune. Natalya had contacted the man when he visited Moscow earlier this year. The man had expressed, with the help of a translator, his awareness that many valued items had been unearthed in the Ukraine, Estonia, and Russia, objects the Americans, Arabs, and Japanese would pay much for.

The manuscript in her shopping bag was, the man from London had said, probably the most valuable of all. She had left it in sight of her cousin after carefully creating a new cover page. The cover of the manuscript now read “The History of the Kardovs by Natalya Dokorova,” a page that was certain to turn even the most curious examiner away.

The real cover page was buried in the many pages of manuscript that her brother had purchased from a woman who claimed that her mother had worked for the great Gogol just before his death. The woman’s mother had told her that Gogol had thrown the manuscript into the fire just days before his death and had walked out of the room. The woman’s mother had reached into the fire and rescued the manuscript. It had been singed slightly, but the woman had reasoned that something by Gogol might have some value. The woman had sold the manuscript to old Dokorov for the cost of a new wardrobe for her daughter.

Dokorov knew he had the real thing, but he had verified it by showing a single page of the manuscript to a professor of literature at Moscow State University. Dokorov had paid the man and told him it was the only page he had. The man had immediately pronounced it authentic.

“Do you realize what you have here?” the professor had said.

“No,” Ivan had replied.

“The only remaining page of the manuscript for Gogol’s sequel to Dead Souls. What do you plan to do with it?”

“Cherish it,” Ivan had said. “My love of literature is greater than my love of life.”

There were other items too-a small, almost priceless Chinese jar, which Natalya had filled with very cheap perfume, as she had its equally valued companion jar, which she would now retrieve if only the police had not found it. But the prize that she would present to the dealer in London was a slightly more-than-life-size jeweled Faberge egg in which nestled a perfect miniature carousel that spun in a gentle circle when wound with a tiny key. She had sealed the lid of the egg with paste that could easily be removed and she had taken a sticker from the Dom Toy Shop and placed it on the egg. There were other items, too, just as well disguised.

Though she was a strong woman, the weight of her bag and the trials of the day had slowed her down by the time she reached her front door. The policewoman stood waiting.

“Let me help you,” Elena said, taking the shopping bag from Natalya. “Can we speak? Just for a moment?”

Natalya nodded her head yes, exaggerating a tiredness she definitely did feel.

The house was almost bare now. Almost every item that might be worth something had been removed. There were now three wooden chairs and a small table painted green in the kitchen.

Elena followed the old woman and placed the bag on the table.

“Some tea?” Natalya said, sagging onto one of the chairs.

Elena pulled one of the other chairs forward and placed it directly before the woman. Then she sat and took one of Natalya’s hands in hers.

“I am sorry, Natalya Dokorova,” Elena said sincerely. “I told you I would help you and …”

Elena looked around.

Natalya put her free hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

“It will be all right,” the old woman said. “Come.”

She rose, and Elena followed her to the small bathroom, where Natalya turned on the light. Toilet. Sink. Tiny tub. Medicine cabinet. Natalya opened the cabinet, reaching past the tube of Crest toothpaste to a small bottle nestled among a quintet of other small bottles.

“I would like you to have this,” said Natalya.

“Thank you,” said Elena with a smile.

“Don’t worry too much. I shall be fine. But I must rest now.”

Natalya walked Elena to the front door and opened it.

“Thank you for stopping by,” said the old woman. “It was kind of you.”

“And thank you for the gift,” Elena said, stepping into the street. She looked down at the bottle in her hand. It was definitely Oriental, decorated with exquisite tiny flowers in a garden. The colors were vivid. Elena opened the top of the jar and smelled the cheap perfume. When she got back to Petrovka, she would empty the bottle, rinse it, and keep it on her desk as a paperweight.

In a rather odd way Anna Porvinovich reminded Porfiry Petrovich of Colonel Snitkonoy.

He watched her cross the room in her somber black knit dress. Her dark hair was brushed back, and not a hair was out of place. Her earrings were simple black onyx. She walked as if she were in some old movie-slowly, pensively, erect. She stood before him and allowed herself to be examined. She wore a knowing, worried smile.

She was, Rostnikov decided, a well-groomed Doberman, not a Wolfhound.

Yevgeniy Porvinovich had let the policeman in. Yevgeniy was wearing gray slacks and suspenders over his white shirt. He had immediately asked if the police had found his brother or identified the kidnappers. The man was a terrible actor. It was clear to Rostnikov that Yevgeniy wanted the answers to his questions to be negative. Rostnikov answered, “We think we know who the kidnapper is.”

Yevgeniy had swayed slightly and barely managed to say, “Good,” when Anna Porvinovich made her dramatic entrance and moved toward him without speaking. She motioned carelessly to the chair and sofa, and Rostnikov accepted, sitting down on one of the high chairs without too much awkwardness. Only when he was seated did she take her own place on the sofa. She checked her dress for wrinkles, smoothed out a nonexistent one, and draped one arm over the back of the sofa. Yevgeniy sat in the chair identical to the one in which Rostnikov was seated.

“Tea?” asked the woman.

“Tea,” said Rostnikov. He had unbuttoned his jacket but not removed it. In a day or two he would have to start wearing a hat. When possible, he would wear his favorite hat, a brown cloth cap with a little brim and ear flaps. His wife said the cap made him look like a comedian in an American comedy. More often he wore a black fur hat, which Sarah had said made him look like a diplomat.

Yevgeniy hurried off to get the tea.

“You have news?” Anna asked.

“A theory,” said Rostnikov. “Your husband was kidnapped by a man named Artiom Solovyov and an unidentified accomplice, probably his assistant in the garage.”

“Artiom Solovyov,” she repeated as if trying to place the name. “The big man where we have our car repaired?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, opening his jacket a bit more. “You have trouble placing him yet you spoke to him on the phone yesterday.”

“Ah,” she said, reaching forward to remove a cigarette from the box on the table between them. “I remember now. So much has happened. Alexei … so much.”

She toyed with the cigarette in her fingers and looked down at it pensively.

“We think you and Artiom Solovyov planned the kidnapping of your husband.”

She looked up suddenly, wary, jaws slightly tensed. Not a dog, thought Rostnikov, a Siamese cat with red claws.

“You have no comment?” Rostnikov said.

“It is too absurd to reply to,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips.

The tremble was slight, ever so slight, but Rostnikov had been looking for it. She lit her cigarette, which gave her time to gather her defenses. She glared at him with a well-performed look of How could you think such things of me? Yevgeniy returned, carrying a tray on which were three cups, spoons, sugar and milk, and a white porcelain teapot. He walked slowly and carefully. He was halfway across the room when Rostnikov said, “I was just telling your sister-in-law that we believe she is responsible for the abduction of your brother. She and a garage mechanic named Solovyov.”

Yevgeniy did not drop the tray, though he did stop rather suddenly, and the cups slid to one side of the tray. He looked at Anna.

“Put down the tray,” she said calmly.

Yevgeniy did so.

“As I recall,” she said, “you take sugar and milk.”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov.

“Sit, Yevgeniy,” she said, preparing the tea for the policeman.

Yevgeniy sat, took a breath, and said, “Absurd.”

“It depends on how you react to it,” said Rostnikov, accepting the cup of tea from Anna Porvinovich. “When I first became a policeman, I was often struck by the absurdity of most of the crime I encountered. Gradually what used to seem absurd began to seem quite normal.”

He sipped his tea and looked at Yevgeniy.

“We are not policemen,” Yevgeniy said.

“I know,” Rostnikov replied. “You are kidnappers and, possibly, accessories to murder.”

“We …?” Yevgeniy said, looking at Anna again and getting no help.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, reaching over for another lump of sugar. The move did not please his withered left leg. It protested as Rostnikov sweetened his tea.

“The tea is a bit tepid,” Anna said, taking a sip. “I’m sorry.”

“It is excellent tea,” he said.

“Do you plan to arrest us?” Anna Porvinovich asked calmly.

“Not yet, unless you would like to confess and tell us where your husband is?”

“I cannot do that,” she said. “I do not know. I know nothing about Alexei’s kidnapping.”

“Well,” said Rostnikov, finishing his tea. “We will get the information from Solovyov. I must go.” He rose, holding the arm of the chair to get himself into a reasonably erect position.

“Is it particularly painful to have such a crippled leg?” Anna Porvinovich asked.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “But my leg and I have come to an understanding. I no longer curse it and it minimally cooperates.”

“When you walk,” she said, “it looks as if you are in pain.”

Rostnikov looked at the woman, who was smiling, a very slight, falsely sympathetic smile.

“Given the choice,” he said, “I would prefer to live with pain than with guilt.”

“You have no choice,” she said, looking at his leg.

“I will return soon,” said Rostnikov, buttoning his jacket. “Thank you for the tea and sympathy.”

She remained seated, languidly holding her cup of tea in one hand, her cigarette in the other. Yevgeniy rose and moved ahead of Rostnikov to the door.

“I assure you, Inspector,” Yevgeniy said, “we are distraught over what has happened to my brother. Anna and I had nothing to do with his kidnapping. We only wish him back. We will pay them anything. I’d give everything I have to see him walk through that door.”

There was a click in the door in front of Yevgeniy and Porfiry Petrovich. The door opened, and standing there, a key in one hand, a pillow in the other, stood a man. The man was about six feet tall, perhaps a little shorter. He wore a badly rumpled suit without a tie. His hair was uncombed, and he had a day’s growth of brown and gray stubble over his grotesquely distorted and swollen purple face.

“Alexei?” said Yevgeniy.

Still standing in the doorway, the man let the pillow drop to uncover the automatic weapon he carried. He said nothing, but pointed inside the apartment. Rostnikov and Yevgeniy backed up, and Alexei pocketed his key and closed the door.

“You,” he said to Rostnikov, pointing the gun at him. “Who are you?”

“A policeman,” said Rostnikov.

“Alexei, I’m so-” Yevgeniy began, but was cut short by a sudden thrust of the weapon across his face.

“Shut up,” said Alexei Porvinovich.

Yevgeniy’s face was bleeding from a nasty slit across his nose and left cheek. He looked as if he was about to weep.

“Move,” said Alexei.

Yevgeniy kept his hand across his face, trying to stop the bleeding. Rostnikov was at his side. They moved slowly into the big living room.

Anna turned and stood erect at the sight of her armed husband. She put down her cup and her cigarette.

“Pleased to see me?” asked Alexei.

She said nothing. Cool. Unafraid.

“Well, I am pleased to be back with my family,” said Alexei with a horrible smile. “It has been a difficult night and day. Sit.”

Anna sat, and Yevgeniy and Porfiry Petrovich went back to the same seats in which they had been sitting before. Alexei stood about three yards away from the trio, much too far for Rostnikov to attempt a leap, even if he were capable of such an action.

“Would you like to know what I have been up to since you last saw me?” Alexei said. “I spent a night of fear and the expectation that I would die. I spent the night knowing that my wife and brother had planned my murder. And then I devised a plan and got this gun from one of the fools who had taken me. I bound him and waited for your friend, Artiom. Then we had a nice talk and I killed them both. I seem to be in a killing mood.”

“You’re crazy,” said Yevgeniy, pressing a napkin to his cheek. The napkin was already dark red with blood.

“Precisely,” said Alexei. “I am insane. I hope it is only temporary, that sometime after I kill you and Anna, my sanity will return. That happens sometimes, doesn’t it, policeman?”

“Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” Rostnikov said.

“Do you think I am out of my mind?” asked Alexei, his weapon pointed at his wife.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “But it is complicated. You are crazed by what has happened to you, but you think you are not. You think you are only pretending to be insane so that you will not be held responsible for killing your wife and brother.”

“Either way, I’m crazy,” said Alexei with a grin.

“True,” said Rostnikov, “but we have a strange judicial system. I have seen demonstrably mad killers sentenced to death or prison and quite lucid murderers declared insane.”

“But did they go through what I’ve gone through?” Alexei shouted.

“My wife and I are caring for two young girls,” said Rostnikov, unbuttoning his jacket. “Their grandmother, with whom they were living, could barely feed them. She shot a food-store manager, killed him, and sat down on a little stool. What she had gone through had driven her quite mad. She is now in prison and will probably spend the rest of her life there. Would you like another example?”

“No,” said Alexei. “I still intend to kill these two.”

“Alexei,” said his wife, “I am sorry.”

“Sorry,” Alexei said with an animallike snort. “You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” she said. “You misunderstand. I am sorry you got away. I am sorry that fool Artiom didn’t kill you. I’m sorry the plan didn’t work, such a simple plan and such fools to deal with. I sometimes wonder why I get involved with men who are fools.”

“Am I a fool, Anna?” Alexei asked as his brother reached for a fresh napkin and began to sob.

“A clever fool,” she said, folding her arms.

“Are you afraid, Anna?” asked Alexei.

“No,” she said. “I know that is what you want, and perhaps you deserve it, but I am not afraid. I’m weary of all of you.”

She turned her back on her husband and walked to the window.

“Was I so bad to you?” Alexei shouted.

“Yes,” she said softly, closing her eyes.

“How?” he demanded. “What did I do that deserved my murder?”

She shrugged and said, “Little things, big things. I’m not going to give you a long list. The way you laugh, snore, gloat. The business stories you tell over and over. Your pitiful sex. There’s much more. What difference does it make? You are going to kill me soon.”

“If you put down the gun,” said Rostnikov, “I will arrest them both for your kidnapping. When they come out of prison, they will be old. They will have missed life while you are free to start a new life without them. Isn’t that better than killing them?”

“Is it?” asked Alexei.

“Yes,” said Yevgeniy eagerly.

Anna, her back still turned, shrugged.

“I do not want to live in a prison,” she said. “I would prefer to die now in my own home.”

Alexei shook his head and ran his fingers across the growth of beard on his mask of pain. “I deserve satisfaction,” he said. “I deserve having you try to talk me out of killing you. I deserve to have you sobbing like Yevgeniy when I kill you.”

Yevgeniy was leaning stiffly back in his now-blood-splattered chair. He looked at Rostnikov for help.

“I will give you no satisfaction,” she said, looking out the window.

“Take them,” Alexei Porvinovich said, lowering his gun and his head. “Take them now.”

He sat on the sofa, a bit dazed, the weapon in his lap.

Rostnikov rose, using both arms of the chair, and said, “Yevgeniy Porvinovich, Anna Porvinovich, I arrest you for the crime of kidnapping and attempted murder. Other charges may be brought following an investigation.” Rostnikov went around the table and reached for the weapon on Alexei Porvinovich’s lap. Alexei did nothing to stop him. He looked straight ahead.

Anna turned from the window and said, “The cloth coat, Yevgeniy. The fur would be stolen by the police, and you might bleed on it.”

“I need a doctor,” Yevgeniy said.

“You’ll get one,” said Rostnikov. “Let’s go.”

They moved forward.

“Where are the two dead men?” Rostnikov asked.

Alexei told him.

“I’ll be back. Have some tea. Get some sleep,” Rostnikov said.

Alexei nodded, reached for Anna’s lipstick-stained cup, and drank what was left.

In the hallway Rostnikov dropped the gun to his side and walked behind the two prisoners. Yevgeniy held a napkin to his wound and looked as if he would fall over.

“I doubt if either of us will go to jail,” Anna Porvinovich said to Yevgeniy. “Stop weeping. If we do have to spend time in prison, I doubt it will be for very long. There are people to bribe and men to reason with. Isn’t that true, Inspector?”

“Probably,” said Rostnikov, wondering how he was going to get the two of them to the closest district station. He had not wanted to call for a police car from the apartment. He had wanted to get them out quickly in case Alexei changed his mind and went for a weapon.

“We worked well together,” Anna said, turning to look at him with a smile.

“Let us say, your performance was excellent,” Rostnikov said. “Deprive the poor victim of his satisfaction.”

“While you,” she said, “promise him a punishment for those who have harmed him, a punishment you cannot deliver.”

“We were wonderful,” said Rostnikov.

Anna smiled at his irony. It was a smile of perfect white teeth. Rostnikov felt that she was a rare combination of seductiveness and intelligence, with more than a touch of madness.

“When we are safely wherever you are taking us,” she said, “I would like to make a few phone calls. And I would like you to come back and arrest Alexei for threatening to kill me. Yevgeniy and I had nothing to do with Alexei’s kidnapping. You have no witnesses now that this Solovyov is dead, no witnesses but my vindictive and deluded husband.”

They were in the elevator now. Yevgeniy, his face blood-red, leaned back until his head bounced against the wall.

Anna continued. “Perhaps this Artiom made up a story about my involvement in his crime. He made certain suggestions-certain advances toward me-which I rejected. He may have taken Alexei out of revenge and told him I was involved in order to torture my poor husband.”

“You are probably the most dangerous woman I have ever met,” said Rostnikov.

“Not the most dangerous person?” she asked, meeting his eyes.

“The most dangerous person I have known senselessly murdered at least forty-two people,” said Rostnikov.

“If I thought it would do any good, I would seduce you,” she said as the elevator doors opened on the ground level.

This time Yevgeniy purposely banged the back of his head on the wall.

“No good at all,” Rostnikov confirmed.

They stepped outside the building. A cab sat free only a few feet away. The driver looked at the trio, particularly the box-shaped man with the machine gun and the man with the bloody face, and sped off down the street.

“What now?” asked Anna.

“We find a phone,” said Rostnikov.

She was now near enough that Rostnikov could smell her. He hoped she would move away. He hoped she would stop talking. He hoped there was a phone nearby.