Hard Currency

SEVEN

It was raining. No, to call it rain was an injustice to the madness that the skies had unleashed. The sheets of dark water that poured down were like nothing Porfiry Petrovich had ever seen. First there had been a gradual gathering of dark clouds as he drove toward the police station. Then came a distant cracking that might have been thunder or sounds from a construction site.

By the time Rostnikov arrived in the small cell in which Igor Shemenkov now sat at a small wooden table, the sky had gone insane. Rostnikov was fascinated. He stood at the window, his back to Shemenkov, whose neck was surrounded by a crude metal brace that made it impossible for him to turn his head.

“What are you looking at?” Shemenkov rasped.

“The rain,” said Rostnikov. “I have never seen rain like this.”

“It always rains like this,” Shemenkov croaked.

A loud crack and a bolt of lightning tore through the sky.

Rostnikov turned to face Shemenkov. “Moscow,” he said, “was built to make people feel small against the magnificence of the revolution. The streets are eight lanes wide, the statues are five stories high, the buildings are as big as mountains. But this-look at it, Shemenkov-this really makes one feel small. You feel we could be washed away in an instant.”

“I have been impressed by the weather since I came to Havana,” Shemenkov said. “And by the women. I wish I had never encountered either.”

Rostnikov looked at the disheveled hulk before him. Shemenkov had his head in his hands. Wisps of whatever hair he had left crept through his fingers. His eyes were puffed and red.

“If you kill yourself, Igor Shemenkov, you will be assumed guilty and I will have come to Cuba for nothing.”

Shemenkov pressed his head more tightly in the vise of his fingers.

“I did not attempt suicide to embarrass you,” said Shemenkov. He coughed painfully.

“Don’t do it again,” said Rostnikov. He crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite the prisoner. “I bring you something that might be hope.”

Shemenkov’s eyes scanned the face of the detective.

“Someone threatened Maria Fernandez three or four weeks ago, a Santería in a place called the Cosacos.”

“Yes,” said Shemenkov. “I told you. His name is Javier.”

“Do you think this Santería might have killed Maria Fernandez knowing the crime would be attributed to you?”

“Of course,” rasped Shemenkov so low that Rostnikov could barely hear him, “I didn’t kill her. Those people … they can go through walls, cast spells. … Of course.”

Another rumble of thunder and more lightning made them pause.

“I hate this country,” said Shemenkov.

“I thought you wanted to stay here.”

“That was before Maria was killed. Now I hate this country.”

“What happened the night this person …?”

“Manuel’s son, Javier,” Shemenkov said. “We got into a fight. He was bothering Maria. She made him look like a fool. He was going to go after her with a knife. I stopped him. He tried to bite my nose. I broke his nose with my head. Į have a hard head.”

“An admirable asset,” said Rostnikov. “And he said he would kill Maria?”

“And me too.”

“What else?” asked Rostnikov.

“What else? Nothing else. Maria’s dead and they say I killed her. What else is there? I can’t talk any more; My throat is burning. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep.”

Rostnikov nodded.

Then Shemenkov said, “These people, who knows? It’s possible.”

Rostnikov got up, unsure of whether Shemenkov was talking about Cubans in general or the Santería in particular. Rostnikov’s leg felt as if it had been filled with water and a weak charge of electricity was being sent through it. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and not terribly unpleasant, which led him to the conclusion that the Cuban weather might actually be soothing to his leg.

“Then,” said Rostnikov, who began moving toward the door, “stay awake and stay alive.”

“Look at me,” said Shemenkov, rising. “I’m a shell, a worthless shell. They won’t let me live. You don’t know these Cubans. They won’t let me live. Even if some crazy African killed Maria, they won’t care. They are going to punish Russia for abandoning them. They are going to punish Russia by killing me and throwing my body into the sea for the sharks. They are going to spit on my body. They are going to laugh at us. And I,” he said, pointing to his chest, “I am going to … I am a dead man. I am worthless.”

As he spoke Shemenkov had turned around completely to face the departing detective. He almost fell from the awkwardness of his stiff-necked movement.

“I did not kill Maria,” he said. “I did not-” Another crack of lightning broke through the ocean that was falling upon Havana.

Rostnikov called the guard to let him out. As he stepped into the corridor he heard Shemenkov shuffle toward his cot in the corner of the room. Rostnikov made his way down the corridor to Major Sanchez’s office, where he knocked. He heard “Entra” and stepped in.

Sanchez was seated behind his desk drinking from a steaming cup. He pointed to another cup across from him on the desk and said, “Coffee, Porfiry Petrovich?”

Rostnikov nodded and sat. He took the coffee in his hands and enjoyed the warmth of the cup against his palms. The room was pleasantly air-conditioned, and though it was morning and he had slept remarkably well, the drum of rain, the hum of the air conditioner, and the warmth of the coffee made Rostnikov drowsy.

“I like your coffee and your rain,” said Rostnikov.

“Gracias. My father had a theory,” said Sanchez, looking into his coffee cup. “If a Cuban is home when the rains come, he feels protected. It is like being in a castle with a great moat. No one will enter. It is a time for peace and security. All are equally trapped and protected by it. It is a time for coffee and love. Is it the same with snow and cold? Is that why Russians are willing to live in Siberia?”

“Your father was a philosopher,” said Rostnikov, finishing his coffee.

“Stonemason,” said Sanchez.

“You heard what I told Shemenkov, what he told me?”

Sanchez simply smiled.

“And?” Rostnikov went on.

“I think this pursuit of a vengeful Santería is a waste of time and energy,” said Sanchez. “Everyone who commits a crime blames it on the Catholics or the Santería. More coffee?”

Rostnikov held out his cup, and Sanchez refilled it from the pot behind him on the table.

“But it is my time and energy,” said Rostnikov.

“Your time and energy,” Sanchez agreed. “You have the services of myself and my staff in your fruitless enterprise.”

“I will call upon them if I need them,” said Rostnikov.

“Let me try another way, Inspector,” said Sanchez. “Havana is divided into ninety-three zones of the Provincial Court. Each zone has its own court division with professional judges. Each zone has its own prosecutors, attorneys, and others affiliated with the integral Vigilance and Protection System, the SUVP. Each zone has representatives of the National Revolutionary Police. Things are done quickly within this system. Do you understand?”

“If a person is arrested for a crime, it is almost a certainty that the system you have described will swiftly convict him,” said Rostnikov.

“It was the same in your country before it was stricken with chaos,” Sanchez went on. “Not only is it unpopular for anyone within the system to represent the accused, it is practically impossible. I have been at trials in which the attorney assigned to the defendant attacked his client with greater zeal than the prosecutor. In this way he let the court know that he was not being disloyal.”

“I appreciate your telling me such things.”

Sanchez shrugged and played with a pencil in front of him.

“I am trying to save you time and effort. I will speak even more frankly if you do not mind,” said Sanchez.

“By all means.”

Sanchez rose, put his hands behind his back, and strode to the window. There was something of the Gray Wolfhound in the move, a certain calculation for effect that alerted Rostnikov.

“There are dangers in Havana as there are in any city,” said Sanchez. “If you remain within the protection of my office, we will see to it that such dangers are avoided. I can offer no such guarantees if you choose to … you understand?”

“Perfectly,” said Rostnikov. “Consider yourself absolved.”

“Unfortunately,” sighed Sanchez, “absolution is not within your power. It is my own superiors to whom I would have to answer should something happen to you or your charming assistant.”

Rostnikov nodded.

“I understand,” said Rostnikov, rising with remarkably little protest from his leg. “The rain seems to be stopping.”

“And its protection fading,” said Sanchez. “Cuidado, amigo.”

“I will be careful,” said Rostnikov, moving toward the door. “A request.”

“Yes.”

“I would like Igor Shemenkov to survive at least until I have completed my investigation, however pointless that investigation might be.”

“He has been moved to a cell with a video camera. He will be watched constantly. There will be no more suicide attempts.”

“Gracias,” said Rostnikov.

“Nyeh zah shto,” replied Major Sanchez.

“Right there,” Angelica Carerra said. She pointed to a wooden-legged tan lounge chair that Elena Timofeyeva thought would be better suited to the waiting room of a medical clinic than an apartment.

Sheets of rain slapped against the windows and roof of the Carerra apartment. The place smelled of must and mildew.

Elena examined the lounge chair. Its recently cleaned pillows still showed the stains of whatever had been used to remove the blood of Maria Fernandez.

“We didn’t want to keep it,” said Carlos Carerra, “but what could we do? Even if we could afford new furniture, where could we buy it?”

The large room was remarkably bare, as if someone were moving in or out. The floor was gray tile. In addition to the lounge chair, there were three white wicker chairs. All faced a low, dark wooden coffee table that matched none of the other furniture. Against a wall stood a heavy, black mock-Chinese serving table on which sat a Chinese-made LP record player. The only decoration on the wall was a crude oil painting of Castro as he might have looked two decades before.

The Carerras had been solicitous. They had welcomed Elena and offered her a towel to dry herself after her dash from the taxi to the apartment building. They had given her a tall glass of lemonade as she apologized for being late. The taxi driver had been unable to find the house. He had been unable, in fact, to find the housing complex or the street. He had lived in Havana his entire life, but he had needed to call his dispatcher for instructions and the dispatcher had not known for sure.

“Havana is a maze of high-rise houses and renamed streets,” Angelica Carerra told Elena.

The rain came down so loudly they had to raise their voices. The wind rattled the windows.

“We are lucky to have this apartment,” said Carlos. “When the rain stops, look around out there. There are only four floors in this building, only eight apartments. It was built before the revolution. The walls are thick. It stays cool. We are lucky.”

The Carerras were standing side by side, concerned, grateful that Elena could speak Spanish, anxious to cooperate.

Carlos was in his late thirties, perhaps forty. He was thin and good-looking, with a broken nose and thinning black hair that he brushed back. He wore faded white slacks and a pale blue cotton shirt with the top button unfastened to reveal a stand of hair on his chest. His wife, Angelica, was of a similar age. She had blond curly hair, wore a lot of makeup, and was quite pretty. Her dress was a pale blue that almost matched her husband’s shirt. Angelica’s body, only slightly fuller than that of Victoria Oliveras, once again made Elena acutely aware of the body she had inherited from generations of Timofeyevas and Lipinovs.

Angelica glanced at the shaking windows.

“When the hurricane came through years ago,” Carlos said, “it took out those windows. Even then it was difficult to get glass. Now, if the windows go, we’ll probably have to board them up.”

“But that is a sacrifice we will make gladly if it will help the revolution,” Angelica added, looking at the painting of Fidel on the wall.

“Please sit,” said Carlos with a sad smile.

Elena sat in approximately the same place where she was sure Maria Fernandez had died. Sitting made Elena acutely aware of how wet she had gotten in her dash from the cab. Angelica sat in one of the wicker chairs.

Carlos asked Elena if she wanted more lemonade. When she declined, he sat in another wicker chair, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and looked at Elena, who put her lemonade down on the coffee table and took out her notebook.

“What do you do for a living?” Elena asked.

“Tours,” said Carlos quickly. “We arrange tours of entertainers throughout Cuba and, when we are lucky, we arrange for Cuban entertainers to travel to other countries. We sent a folk band to the Soviet Union three years ago. Great success.”

“Until a few years ago,” Angelica said, “Carlos and I performed. Dancers. My parents were ballroom dancers before the revolution. They appeared all over the world-Miami, New York, Rio, Madrid. Santos and Anita.”

“I was a great admirer of Angelica’s parents,” said Carlos as lightning cracked outside again. “I wanted to be a dancer. I became a soldier.”

Carlos laughed. Angelica joined him. Elena did not laugh, but she did manage a small smile.

“How long did you know Maria Fernandez?”

“Well,” said Carlos. “Not very long. A year, perhaps.”

“Yes, a year,” Angelica agreed. “She wanted to be a singer. There are too many singers. Some of them very good, but too many, even too many pretty ones.”

Carlos nodded in agreement.

“But we liked her,” he said. “We hired her to help us. And she was very good.”

“Very good,” Angelica agreed, folding her hands in her lap.

“And Victoria Oliveras?” Elena asked, trying not to think of a quick return to her room at the El Presidente and a change into dry clothes.

“Well,” said Carlos, looking at Angelica and sighing. “To tell the truth, Victoria was a friend of Maria’s. I don’t know how they met. I think Victoria attached herself to Maria. We warned her about Victoria.”

“We had heard some … things about her,” Angelica said, almost too softly for Elena to hear.

“Things?” Elena asked.

The rain suddenly subsided. Within seconds it turned into a light drizzle.

“None of our business,” said Carlos, “but we heard she was into things, perhaps illegal things. And some of the people she knew … Well, sexual preferences can some times …”

“Not that we condemn,” added Angelica.

“What about Shemenkov?” said Elena.

“Ah, the Russian,” said Carlos. “Maria met him at the Russian club. She was there with a show, managing, setting up, you know.”

Elena nodded and wrote in her notebook.

“He approached her,” said Angelica. “That’s what she said. And to give him his due, she encouraged him. She thought he was funny. She called him her Russian bear, said she would train him to do tricks.”

“Were you at the Cosacos bar when the man called Javier threatened to kill Maria and Igor Shemenkov?”

“Who told you that?” asked Carlos.

“Victoria Oliveras.”

“It wasn’t such a great thing,” Carlos said. “Yes, he got into an argument with Igor. Javier had said some things to Maria. Maria had tried to ignore him. Javier was a little drunk and so …”

“Did Shemenkov strike him?”

“No,” said Carlos. “Push a little, maybe. But strike? No.” He looked at Angelica, who nodded her head in firm agreement.

“Javier is a Santería.” said Elena.

“Perhaps,” said Carlos. “Many blacks are.”

“Whites too,” added Angelica. “More now that Fidel is enlisting the Santería in the revolution. Even Gramma carries articles now on the ‘colorful’ high priests and their support of the revolution.”

Carlos closed his eyes and nodded in assent.

“The Santería can be violent,” Elena went on.

“Yes,” said Carlos.

“The night Maria Fernandez was murdered, did you see anyone nearby?”

“You mean like a witness?” asked Angelica.

Elena nodded.

“I don’t know,” Angelica said. “Who remembers?”

“I don’t remember,” said Carlos, playing with a large silver ring on his finger. “Just Martin, the building maintenance man. He was sweeping the stairs when we came in, I think.”

“Yes,” Angelica confirmed.

“Where does he live?”

“In the basement,” said Carlos. “A room. But he is …” Carlos touched the side of his head with a finger.

“What happened the night Maria Fernandez was murdered?” Elena asked.

“You know we have told this three, four times to the police?” asked Angelica.

“I have seen their report. Please, once more.”

Carlos sighed and said, “We came here for drinks, to talk, and to be sociable. Victoria showed up. There were words, stupid words. Angelica and I wanted them to go. Maria and Igor started to argue. We got Victoria into the hall and tried to get her to leave.”

“No one on the stairs?”

“No,” said Carlos. “No one came up. Our neighbors across the hall, the Hernandezes, are away, on business I think. We were trying to get Victoria to leave, had her halfway down the stairs, when we heard the scream and the noise. We all ran back up. The Russian was standing over Maria. She was covered in blood. I think my wife screamed.”

“I did. And Victoria attacked Igor even though he had a knife in his hand. She kicked him in the face.”

“He didn’t hurt her?” said Elena.

“No, he didn’t,” said Carlos. “He just looked … I don’t know. Stunned.”

“Did he speak?”

“Yes,” said Angelica. “He said, ‘Someone has killed Maria.’ I think that’s what he must have been saying in Russian. It took a while to get him to say it in Spanish.”

The rain had definitely stopped now and a hint of sunlight came through the window. Distant thunder whispered in retreat.

“Was that window open the night of the murder?” asked Elena.

“Yes,” said Carlos. “It is always open at night unless it is raining.”

Elena got up as gracefully as she could and moved to the window, notepad still in hand. She opened the window and felt a rush of warm moist air. She looked four stories down at the empty street and then, holding the side of the window ledge, leaned out to look upward. The roof was two or three feet over her head.

“Can I look at the roof?” she asked, easing back into the room.

Angelica did not join them on the trip to the roof, though the ascent was not particularly difficult. On the interior landing outside the apartment, Carlos stepped back into the shadows and reached up for a metal chain. The chain, sleepy with rust, came down reluctantly. When pulled it released an equally rusty ladder. A sudden clang echoed across the landing as the ladder came down.

“Careful,” Carlos called out as he headed up the ladder.

Elena followed him up and through the trapdoor to the roof, which was covered with pebbles. Water from the rain could be heard trickling down a metal drain. There were five bent television antennas lashed to the stone balustrade that fenced in the roof at hip level.

“Did the police come up here?” Elena asked.

“Up here? I think so, but maybe not. Why?”

Carlos had somehow managed to make the climb without creasing or soiling his white trousers. He carefully removed a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his hands.

Elena looked outward at the expanse of high-rise white-block apartments, trees, and departing clouds. Then she moved to the edge of the roof. The next apartment building, about eight feet away, seemed to be a duplicate of the one on which she stood, except that it had only three antennas. On the opposite side there was only an empty lot.

“Your window?” she asked, and Carlos led the way to the edge of the roof facing the street.

“Just below, here I think,” he said.

Elena moved past him, leaned over to be, sure he was right, and felt along the stone wall above the window. The cement was chipped away, but most of the chipped cement was dark with dirt. There was one small chip that looked more recent. At the base of the wall, she searched and pushed away small stones.

“What are you looking for?” Carlos asked.

Elena said nothing. Almost instantly she found two holes. She pressed the tip of her finger into one of the holes and brought it back out with the dust of clean moist cement.

“What did you find?” Carlos asked as Elena rose.

“I would like two things, Señor Carerra,” she said.

“Of course.”

“First, I would like to have the use of your handkerchief so that I may clean my palms as you have. Second, I would like to get on the roof of the apartment building next door.”

Carlos nodded, fished out his handkerchief, and handed it to her.

“Some people are joining us for dinner tonight,” Rostnikov said when Elena reported to him at the table near the pool of the El Presidente Hotel. The table was fast becoming Porfiry Petrovich’s unofficial office.

He was dressed in dark slacks and a yellow guayabera shirt. His forehead was slightly sunburned and he sipped on a tall drink.

Elena sat down and placed her notebook in front of her. Rostnikov was looking at a pair of children, a boy and a girl, splashing in the pool and arguing in what might have been Portuguese over an inflated toy that looked like a cross-eyed pink pony.

“Would you like to know who is joining us?”

“Yes,” said Elena.

“Major Sanchez and Povlevich of the KGB. At breakfast this morning he looked so lonely I took pity on him. We will meet at eight, have some drinks, perhaps see some of the town. When we return I will excuse myself for a well-earned night of sleep while you entertain Major Sanchez, who has a decided interest in you, and Povlevich, who is decidedly glum and in need of as much of the Russian language as he can get.”

The waiter reached over Elena’s shoulder and placed a duplicate of Rostnikov’s drink before her.

“And the reason for this merriment and revelry, Inspector?” she asked.

“Ah,” he said, shifting in his chair to look at the group of American and Cuban writers, who were making an early start at drinking and arguing. “I will slip away with our nearsighted journalist Antonio Rodriguez in search of our Santería.

“But have we not concluded that Rodriguez is probably in the employ of Major Sanchez?”

“We have so concluded,” said Rostnikov. “Our conclusion is tentative, but … given our options and the fact that our Major Sanchez has suggested that the Cuban judicial system is likely to move swiftly in this case …”

“Perhaps I have some information that will make your search more promising.” Elena opened her notebook.

“It was my impression that you were filled with revelations.”

“Am I so obvious?”

“You are very wet, very tired, and glowing with life. Speak.”

“The Carerras pretend to be what they are not,” she said. “Their furnishings are spare but there are marks on the floor which indicate that other furniture has been moved. There was one painting on the wall, but clear outlines from the sun indicate that the walls had been covered with pictures or photographs. Carlos Carerra suggested that they had little money for food and drink and gave me only lemonade, but there was a distinct smell of meat recently cooked. I was not shown the kitchen. The table in the living room was filled with bottles. I heard them when I touched the surface.”

“Good,” said Rostnikov. “But that is not the news with which you are bursting.”

“There are signs that something, perhaps a rope or metal ladder, was recently lowered from the roof to the window of the Carerras’ apartment. On the adjacent roof, perhaps eight feet away, I found a wooden painters’ platform leaning against the wall where it could not be seen from the roof of the Carerra apartment building. It was too heavy to move but it is sturdy and about ten feet long.”

“Major Sanchez’s report indicates that the police found no sign of possible entry to the Carerra apartment from the roof,” said Rostnikov.

“Perhaps they did not look carefully enough,” said Elena Timofeyeva. She put her hand to her hair and realized with horror that it was a wild mop. It had probably been just so from the moment she entered the Carerra apartment.

“Or perhaps they did not wish to look carefully enough,” said Rostnikov. “You’ve done well. Go to your room. Take a bath if there is any hot water. Take a nap, prepare to have a good time.”

Elena rose, closed her notebook, and nodded.

“In a little while I am going to the stadium across the avenue where I have been told there exists a passable collection of weights. I order you to enjoy yourself, Elena Timofeyeva.”

“I’m not sure that enjoyment is something that one can be ordered to engage in.”

“Perhaps not, but my doing so gives you leave to make me responsible for allowing you to abandon your post.”

“May I say that I find your reasoning convoluted,” she said.

“It is a skill which I have nurtured and in which I take some pride.”

Elena was about to speak again when the children in the pool shrieked and Rostnikov turned his head to look at them.

Five minutes later Elena was in the bath with the water running. Twenty minutes later she was asleep in her bed. Five floors below children were still squealing in the swimming pool.

Had he arrived five minutes earlier or later, Emil Karpo would have missed the boy with the red Mohawk and the slender blue-haired girl in black leather. The sky was dark with the threat of rain or early snow, and people were hurrying in and out of Petrovka to beat the weather.

They were at the sentry gate, arguing with the uniformed guard, who was repeating that they could not see Inspector Rostnikov, that he was unavailable, that they could leave a message, that they were holding up the line. The line consisted of a short, fat, shivering man carrying a briefcase and looking at his watch with impatience.

“Capones?” Karpo said, stepping around to the sentry station.

The red-haired boy looked up at him, and the girl, whose eyes were made up with dark circles so she looked like an owl, smiled.

“Yes,” the boy said. “We need to see the Washtub.”

“Come,” Karpo said, motioning them to follow him into the street. The uniformed young officer motioned for the short businessman to step forward.

Karpo crossed Petrovka Street with the two Capones at his side. A low fence and some trees faced the Petrovka station. Karpo stopped beneath the trees near the bus stop and turned to the Capones.

“We want to see the Washtub,” the boy said defiantly.

“What is your name?” Karpo asked.

“I’m called Matches.”

“Why do you want to see Inspector Rostnikov?’ asked Karpo. He was aware of the owl girl looking at him with something that appeared to be fascination.

“We want Yellow Angel’s body,” said the boy.

“Her name was Iliana Ivanova,” said Karpo.

“She hated her name,” said the girl. “She didn’t want to be buried with that name over her. She wanted a headstone with a yellow angel.”

“We are trying to find her family,” said Karpo. He felt the first drops of slushy rain begin to fall.

“You found it,” said Matches. “The Capones are her family.”

“When the examiners are finished with the body, I’ll see what can be done,” Karpo said, looking at the girl.

“You’re the Vampire,” she said. “The one they call the Vampire.”

Karpo pulled the leather notebook from his pocket.

“When?” asked Matches, nervously pulling up the collar of his jacket to keep the sleet from his neck. “When can we get her?”

“Have Xeromen call me at this number in an hour, at nine-thirty,” Karpo said, handing the boy the sheet of paper.

Matches looked at the sheet and then at the girl, who was still admiring Karpo.

“Take it,” she said.

Matches put the paper in his jacket pocket.

In the red treetops of Matches’s hair, beads of gray sleet clung, slipped, and melted.

The girl smiled at Karpo again and shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her dress was short and her legs covered with thin tights. Karpo was sure she was no more than fifteen or sixteen. The cheeks and thighs of childhood gave her away, even though her eyes revealed experience that added five years to her heavily made-up face.

“Well?” said Matches, reaching up to brush the sleet from his hair.

“Nine-thirty,” said Karpo. He now looked directly into the girl’s eyes.

Her grin disappeared. She blinked and turned away.

“Let’s go,” said Matches, touching her arm. “Ginka, let’s go.”

The sleet was falling harder now. Matches pulled at the girl’s arm, and finally, reluctantly she followed him. As they hurried down the street she looked back at the motionless pale policeman in black, whose eyes followed them as they reached the waiting black Volga and got in.