Hard Currency

EIGHT

The Moscow Metropolitan Railway, with more than 100 stations, 160 miles of track, 8,000 trains, and over 2 million passengers a day, is-in terms of layout, efficiency, extent, and even beauty-the best subway system in the world. It is probably the highest lasting achievement of the Soviet Union in Moscow.

Stations are scrubbed and polished constantly. Air is changed four to eight times an hour depending on the traffic. Smoking is forbidden in stations and on all trains, which run until one in the morning and arrive every ninety seconds at all stations during the rush hour.

There are seven lines, each color coded, with convenient transfer stops in the center of the city and along the Koltsevaya Line, which runs in an almost perfect circle around the central city. A map of the system looks like the wheel of a cart with its spokes extended well beyond the rim.

The cost of travel on the Moscow Metro is one ruble, the equivalent of an American penny.

The system is semiautomatic, operated by computer, monitored by uniformed drivers who check the control settings.

When plans for an underground railway were considered before the revolution, in 1902, the newspaper Russkoye Slovo called the proposal “a staggeringly impudent encroachment on everything Russian people hold dear in the city of Moscow. As the tunnel of the metropolitan railway will pass in places only a few feet beneath churches, the peace and quiet of these sacred places will be disturbed.” The Moscow City Council, the Duma, rejected the proposal.

The first shaft of the Moscow Metro was finally sunk in 1931. When the first train ran on May 15, 1935, there were thirteen stations. Even when the war with Hitler began, construction continued.

Stone and wood from all over the Soviet Union were used to construct each station. Architects, sculptors, painters, and designers considered it a great honor to be assigned to a Metro station. Many of the stations in the center of the city look more like cavernous museum galleries than train stations.

Each stop on the Metro line is different from all the others. The Mayakovskaya Station is known for its massive red marble columns and its mosaics created from the cartoons of Alexander Deineka. The lighting system in the Kropotkinskaya Station was designed to give the impression that the station is on the surface and that sunshine is beaming in on a bright summer morning. Supported by seventy-two pillars, the Komsomolskaya Station, with its eight massive mosaics depicting the struggle for independence, is more than two hundred yards long.

In the winter, Gypsies and the wandering homeless ride the trains for warmth and the opportunity to beg from captive travelers.

The Metro police division, a branch of the Moscow police with almost one thousand uniformed and plainclothed men and women, patrols the vast system, dealing with a range of crimes that includes purse-snatching, pocket-picking, and the recent outbreak of American-style muggings by youth gangs.

“And so,” said Sasha Tkach, sipping tepid tea, “what does this tell us about Tahpor? Is he a Metro employee? A frequent rider? A lunatic who loves or hates the Metro? This could also be a coincidence.”

Karpo stood next to him in the office of Inspector Rostnikov looking at the Metro map he had brought from his room and carefully laid out on the desk.

“I have considered this,” said Karpo. “The odds are approximately two hundred to one against the selection of forty murder sites in close proximity to Metro stations being random.”

Sasha poured himself some more tea from the thermos Maya had prepared for him. Some time during the night, Sasha had begun to develop a slight cough and when he got up in the morning he thought he might have a temperature.

“Why didn’t anyone notice this connection to Metro stations before?” asked Sasha.

“Perhaps,” said Karpo, “because there is no overt connection, only a proximity that becomes remarkable when the sample becomes large enough. Coincidence would have had at least one of the murders taking place farther than five minutes from a station, or one or more of the murders even closer to a Metro station. It would appear, therefore, that 341 does not want to act too near a station and is afraid of getting too far from one.”

“I’m catching a cold again and I distrust such statistics,” said Tkach.

“I have noticed that you are remarkably prone to viral attack. I suggest large doses of citrus and aspirin and I share your skepticism, but I think the possibility that I may be correct is worth pursuit unless you have a potentially more promising conjecture.”

“I have a cold.”

“I’m sorry, but you have colds with increasing frequency.”

“Pulcharia asked about you,” said Tkach, stifling a sneeze. “She likes you.”

Karpo allowed himself a smile, though no one, with the possible exception of Rostnikov, would have recognized it as such. He looked up at the clock on the wall of Rostnikov’s office. It was a few minutes before four.

“I read,” said Tkach, returning to his skepticism, “that a researcher for the American Encyclopedia Britannica determined the square footage of forest in the Soviet Union by calling a forest ranger and asking how many trees grew on an average square acre of forest. The researcher then looked at a map, added up all the area marked in green in the Soviet Union, divided it by acres, and multiplied it by the number the forest ranger had given her. That figure then appeared in the encyclopedia and has subsequently been picked up by almanacs and even used by Izvestia.”

“And you find a relationship between this anecdote and my conclusions about 341?” asked Karpo.

“You see spots on a map and draw a conclusion.” Tkach sniffled. “You see a pattern. You connect the dots to make the picture you want to see.”

The tinkling fluorescent light from the single fixture above Rostnikov’s desk sent long shadows down Karpo’s pale face.

“I see no other reasonable conclusion,” said Karpo. “I think 341 will realize this too,” he said.

“Realize what?” asked Sasha, holding back a sneeze that confounded him by emerging as a cough.

“Perhaps soon, or perhaps after more killing, he will become aware of his pattern.”

“And perhaps never,” said Tkach. “But, assuming you are right, what will he do?”

“Force himself to kill a great distance from a Metro station, if he is capable of doing so. Or commit a murder in a Metro station, if he is capable of doing so.”

“Or,” said Sasha, “simply go right on the way he has been. We can search far from a Metro station, inside a station, or near a station. The circle is closing around our killer, Karpo. We have him trapped within the confines of greater Moscow.”

“I assume that was sarcasm. I do not find sarcasm productive,” said Karpo.

Someone tapped at the door and Sasha called for whoever it was to enter. A female clerk with very short hair stuck her head in and announced that Sasha had a call.

Karpo responded by looking down at the map.

“Deputy Inspector Tkach,” Sasha said into the phone.

“You sound worse,” said Maya. “Did you drink the tea?”

“I’m drinking,” he said. “I’ll get an orange or some pills.”

“Pulcharia has a cough too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If it gets worse, I’m calling that doctor, Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin, the one we met at the party. The clinic lines are getting longer and the nurses always take your temperature and give you the same bottle of red syrup.”

“Good idea,” said Tkach. Karpo, standing pale and still, reminded Sasha of the statue of Lenin in October Square. Then Sasha remembered that the statue of Lenin was no longer in October Square.

“Try to come home and get some rest,” Maya said.

“I’ll try,” Sasha said, aware that home and rest were antagonistic concepts. His greatest chance at recuperation would probably be to remain right here in Rostnikov’s overly warm office pondering the Metro theory of Emil Karpo.

When Sasha hung up the phone, Karpo spoke.

“We have a profile of victims. Central Computer indicates that they are sixty-four percent males and thirty-six percent females. The median age of victims is twenty-one, with the range from fifteen to thirty. An examination of the victims suggests that the younger ones looked a bit older and the older ones looked younger than their age. All of the victims were approached while traveling alone.”

“So,” said Tkach, leaning back dreamily, “the odds are approximately three to one that Tahpor will next attack a male traveling alone who is in his early twenties or seems to be. The odds are perhaps eighty to one that this attack will take place near a Metro station.”

“So it would seem.”

“Ah,” said Tkach, fighting a strong urge to close his eyes and lean far back in Rostnikov’s desk chair. “And when?”

“Soon perhaps,” said Karpo, still staring at the map. “He killed two days ago. He has killed on consecutive days. He has waited months to kill. What he has not done is strike three days after a murder.”

“But he might go back to an old pattern,” said Tkach, resisting the urge to touch his own forehead to check his temperature.

“All things are possible,” said Karpo. “We are dealing with a madman. Like all mad people, he has a set of needs, a pattern that compels him.”

“Like killing always five minutes from the Metro. So, what is your plan?”

“My plan,” said Karpo, “is to find as many young people as we can who fit 341’s victim profile, and place them where they can be watched if they are approached by anyone.

“And how many decoys and watchers would that take to have any statistical chance of finding 341?” asked Tkach.

“Several hundred,” said Karpo.

“We’ll need the Wolfhound to get the Metro police to cooperate,” said Tkach. “You are talking about one hundred police.”

“Then we shall ask him for that. We shall convince him that it is imperative.”

“And the decoys? Even if we get enough police, which is not likely, where are we going to get a hundred decoys who fit the victim profile?”

Karpo simply looked at Sasha and said nothing.

“You have at least one in mind,” said Sasha.

“Yes,” replied Emil Karpo.

“So, you have me. All you need are about fifty more.”

“I think I may know where to get them,” said Karpo. The phone on Rostnikov’s desk rang. It was precisely nine-thirty.

Yevgeny Odom was a hardworking man. Not only did he carefully plan murders and protect Kola, he also worked two jobs.

Since his full-time job did not start till early in the afternoon, he put in two or three hours each day in the blood bank at the hospital. His army service as a medical assistant had taught him how to draw blood, and his pleasant disposition had earned him his civilian position. Donors frequently reported to doctors and nurses that the tall man with the small smile drew their blood with almost no pain and great good humor, both characteristics that were traditionally in short supply in Russia.

When he went to the hospital in the mornings, he always carried his flat, compact, blue carry-on bag, an imitation Delsey he had purchased at a street market. It contained, among other things, hundreds of rubles. It had become a necessity with insane inflation to carry a bag of money to buy even the most mundane of things. Street vendors sold cans of Pepsi, jars of pickles, postcards, and political sketches at one stand, pathetic onions, fur hats, religious icons, and cans of olives at the next. Food was suddenly plentiful and the lines were short in stores. The problem was that very few Russians had enough money to buy anything.

Yevgeny’s needs were limited, but one had to be prepared.

This day should be no different from all the rest. He placed the bag behind the table at which he drew the blood and entered into the morning routine with enthusiasm, offering support and sympathy to each person who dutifully made a fist while he prepared the needle.

During the previous night he had made his decision. It had come partly from logic and cunning, partly from this faint sense of separation he had begun to feel. He would double-check before locking the plan into place, but he could see no great problem with it.

“Fist please,” he said to the heavy, dark man in the chair. The man was frightened and trying not to show it. There was the look of a drinker in the man’s skin and eyes; his blood would probably be rejected, but that was not Yevgeny Odom’s concern.

The man cringed as Yevgeny tightened the yellow elastic band around his bicep. The man tried to look away as the needle approached skin but he could not resist and turned at the last instant. Into his arm went the needle, smoothly, easily. The man let out the breath of air he had been holding.

“Hurt?” asked Yevgeny.

“No,” said the man with a smile.

“Good, it’s over.”

The man moved away quickly, and Yevgeny smiled in amusement. He hoped that there was a policeman or a team of policemen assigned to him. It was reasonable that there would be. He preferred to imagine real human beings rather than a computer and a set of standard Ministry of the Interior guidelines for identifying and apprehending serial killers.

Yevgeny had considered his options carefully. He contemplated a faceless, androgynous victim along a riverbank in Klin, but rejected the distant riverbank as somehow unsatisfying even though it would make sense to strike next far from the city. He chose not to explore the reasons for this decision, but something inside told him that the decision to remain in the city was correct.

A thin, thirtyish woman with an aggressive look on her face was the next donor. Her washed-out blond hair was tied back with a band, making her face even more taut and tense than the situation merited.

“Sit, please,” Yevgeny said, holding his large hands open to show they were empty and harmless.

The thin woman sat cautiously.

“This will not hurt. I promise you.”

She watched him aggressively and he smiled at her. He preferred the aggressive ones like this to the ones who chatted, seeking contact and kinship in an effort to obtain more gentle treatment. They always walked away thinking that their transparent efforts had been the cause of his care. He preferred ones like this, who had no choice but to credit him for the ease of these few moments.

“Please pull up the sleeve of your dress,” he said. Reluctantly the woman did so.

Perhaps she was one of those who believed that her anger would generate a fear in him that would result in his taking extra care. Then she, too, would walk away crediting not him but her own actions. In fact, it mattered not to Yevgeny whether they pleaded, tried to make friends, cast warning looks, or resigned themselves to their fate. He treated them all the same. He wanted donors, victims, and the police to treat him with the respect he deserved as a professional.

The woman turned out to be another satisfied donor. Her anger turned to relief, and she managed to mumble a thank-you as she rolled down her sleeve and hurried away.

At precisely 11:00 A.M., Yevgeny was relieved by Karin. He did not know her last name, nor did he want to know. She was his age perhaps, a bit plump, with dark hair and good skin. She was not terribly bright and tried to mask it with a weary Moscow cynicism. Yevgeny knew that if he wanted her she would be more than willing to come to his apartment, but he did not want her. He exchanged pleasant greetings, wished her a hearty good day, and hurried off with his carry-on bag. He had just enough time to change into his uniform and make it to his shift on the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya Metro Line.

Two of the three young men who waited for Rostnikov outside the sports center were getting impatient and distinctly nervous.

Their names were Juan and Martin. They were twin brothers, but not identical. Juan looked very much like their mother-thin and dark-while Martin was the image of their father, who was also named Martin. Martin was very big and looked quite as stupid as he was. People who met the brothers often mistakenly believed that the crafty-looking one, Juan, provided whatever thinking the pair could generate. In fact, Juan was every bit as stupid as his brother. Martin’s pride, what there was of it, came from his strength, which he had been born with. Juan’s pride was derived from his knife.

Both Juan and Martin relied on the third young man who stood with them. His name was Lupe and he was younger than they. He was a brooding, good-looking young man with thick dark hair and full lips. Lupe had led the twins from failed career to failed career. They had failed in the black market trying to sell imitation American clothes. They had failed at petty extortion, almost getting caught when a shopkeeper on Calle Composteta called for the police. They had even failed at reasonably honest work, first because they had no heart for long hours and later because there was no work to be had.

Supposedly the trio were now farmworkers on a citrus farm somewhere in the northern provinces. In fact, they were muggers with a reasonably successful two months behind them.

Lupe chose their victims well, foreigners who would be carrying hard currency or jewelry that could be sold for hard currency. The foreigners were usually women or men who did not look as if they could defend themselves.

The one he had chosen today seemed perfect, a washtub of a man comically dressed in a sweat suit, a towel draped around his neck, and a light jacket over his shoulders. The man walked with a decided limp. There was no way he could chase them. They would simply wait till he emerged from whatever workout he had planned, pull him behind the tin-roofed hut beyond the sports complex, grab his jacket and wallet and the wedding band on his left hand, and run while he shouted for help and limped after them.

The only question was, how long would the lame foreigner be inside the sports complex?

The answer was forty-five minutes.

Inside the complex, in a vast room the size of a small airplane hangar, the sound of grunts and the echo of weights clanging on gray mats was music to the ears of Porfiry Petrovich. There were perhaps fifteen people using the old, worn weights, of which there were plenty. Rostnikov preferred to work out alone in his own apartment, on his own pull-out bench, with his own weights that he stored in the cabinet in the living room-kitchen. At home he savored his routine, but he was not at home.

He found a relatively private corner, removed his sweatshirt, and pulled down the T-shirt that bore the fading words “Moscow Senior Championship 1983” across the back.

The bench nearby was not as low as his own bench, but it was not bad. He arranged the weights, preparing them so that he could alter the weight on the bar. Even though there were enough weights and bars to allow him to use different ones, his familiar routine was more important than convenience.

As he set to work, humming “Mean to Me,” he tried to recall the almost childlike trill in the voice of Dinah Washington as she sang “It must be great fun to be mean to me.”

Soon he was almost lost in the memory of his tape and the painful comfort of the weights. He closed his eyes as he sat on the bench doing his set of forty curls with a fifty-pound weight in each hand.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at a quartet of boys all around ten years old who were leaning against a pipe railing about fifteen yards away.

Rostnikov smiled at the boys. They smiled back and it was clear that they were not going to depart. So Rostnikov moved away from the bench to pick up the bar on which he had placed two hundred pounds. He bent over and knelt toward the bar. It would have been better if he could squat, but his damaged leg had never permitted him the proper form.

He chalked his hands, closed his eyes, gripped the bar, and tried to think of the circle of the moon as he merged with the weight. When he was ready he stood erect, swept the mass of clanking balanced metal first to his chest and then, taking a step with his weak leg, skyward. When it was firmly overhead and in control, Rostnikov opened his eyes to the applause of the smiling boys.

As he brought the bar down and pressed it back up, the boys counted joyfully,

“Uno … dos … tres … cuatro … cinco … seis.”

When he brought the weight back down to his chest and eased it to the mat with a satisfying clank, the boys again broke into applause. Rostnikov stepped over the bar and bowed formally to the quartet. This had been as much fun as when he had won the senior weight-lifting championship and met the great Alexiev.

When he finished the entire routine, the boys approached him as he gathered his things. They jabbered, quickly in Spanish he could not understand.

“American, Canada?” asked a thin boy.

“Russian,” answered Rostnikov.

“Ruskie, Ruskie,” the boys chanted.

“Va a volver mañana?” asked another boy, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket.

“Mañana, si,” said Rostnikov.

They left him at the door of the building and ran back inside. He wiped himself with his drenched towel and headed down the concrete path toward the Avenida del Presidente.

Normally, Rostnikov would have sensed the attack, but conditions were not normal. The sun was hot; he was exhausted and in a country whose sounds were unfamiliar.

In front of him stood a good-looking young man with a smile on his face. The man’s legs were slightly apart and he clasped his hands in front of him like a soldier at ease. Suddenly an arm circled Rostnikov’s neck and a thin young man at his side held the point of a knife to his stomach.

“Shhh,” said the good-looking young man in front of him as the young man with the knife reached for Rostnikov’s jacket pocket. The good-looking young man had stepped forward. Now he lifted Rostnikov’s left hand and put his fingers on the wedding band.

Rostnikov took two shallow breaths. Then he threw his left hand up at the thin man’s wrist. It snapped, sending the knife flying into the air. With his left hand Rostnikov grasped the wrist of the man in front of him and pulled the man’s nose into his forehead. The nose collapsed in a crunch of bone. Then, as the grip around his neck tightened, Rostnikov tensed his neck muscles, grabbed the fingers of the man behind him, and bent the fingers back, quickly breaking three of them. Rostnikov turned and faced the startled man, who looked first at the other two, one who was howling in pain as he staggered away, and the other, whose face was a sheet of gushing blood. The man with the broken fingers turned and ran.

Rostnikov picked up the knife and turned to the confused man with the shattered nose.

“Don’t touch it,” Rostnikov said in English. “You understand?”

The man nodded dumbly.

“Good. If you know a doctor, you should go see him. Might be bone chips. But remember, don’t touch it.”

The man seemed uncertain of which way to go for an instant. Then he hurried after the other two, leaving a trail of dripping blood behind him. Rostnikov adjusted his wedding band, mopped his face with the towel, and continued his walk back to the hotel.

In Moscow, he thought, they would have had guns. In Moscow, they probably would have belonged to some extended Mafia like the Capones. They would have had backup.

It was a relief, Rostnikov decided, crossing the avenue behind an ancient Volkswagen, to be in Cuba, where some crime was still, at least for a while, in controllable infancy.