Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 24

Security Services major Nikolai Ievlev had taken the death of the thief known as Thrush personally. The major had spent nearly two years building a case against the crime boss. He had enough material in his safe to send him to the gallows. But no one knew that besides Ievlev. Nikolai had collected his materials against Thrush with the utmost discretion.

Two years ago, Thrush had put out a contract on the major’s brother, Anton Ievlev, a successful businessman. Not for any particularly salacious reason: their interests had just crossed, and Thrush thought it easier to remove his competition than reach an agreement with him. His hitman killed Anton inside the front door of his apartment building.

Thrush was considered uncatchable by most in the Security Services. He’d been convicted of petty crimes in the past, but his convictions always ended with early release. No one had any doubt that the famous thief had done things worthy of the gallows, but there’d never been enough proof. There couldn’t be. Thrush had people everywhere—the Prosecutor’s Office, the Security Service, the Interior Department, even the State Duma. Major Ievlev knew this full well and had conducted his investigation into the boss’s operation quietly and cautiously.

Ievlev was on the verge of presenting all the evidence he had amassed to the State Prosecutor when Thrush was killed at the Vityaz restaurant outside Moscow. Major Ievlev actually did care how Thrush took the bullet he so richly deserved. Ievlev’s innate sense of justice demanded that Thrush’s execution be legal, authorized by a court’s verdict, not as the culmination of some kind of gangland shoot-out.

When Ievlev found out that the investigation into the Vityaz shooting was being run by the department led by Colonel Sergei Krotov, his heart began to pound. Naturally, Senior Investigator Mikhail Sichkin wasn’t burning to share Security Service materials on the Azarov murder with the major. He told him as much as the rules of interdepartmental relations required. And not one word more. But what he told him was more than enough.

Ievlev had already guessed that it wasn’t a typical gangland shoot-out. A strong hand was behind the murder of Thrush and his men. Now that a remote-controlled bomb had been planted in the stroller of Colonel Krotov’s daughter, Ievlev no longer had any doubts that Thrush had been offed on specific orders from above.

Someone was sending Colonel Krotov and his men the message that they shouldn’t dig any deeper. That someone had acted crudely but convincingly. Most likely, Krotov had already been warned. But he hadn’t heeded the warning. Now he’d been warned again. They doubtless were calculating that his wife would call him in London and that the frightened colonel would cut his trip short, race back to Moscow, and make sure that the investigation into the shoot-out and the singer Azarov’s murder never went anywhere.

Ievlev was convinced that the fact that the stroller blew up before the child was in it was no accident. They didn’t want to kill the colonel’s wife, just give her a scare. But that strange woman, Lena Polyanskaya, scared though she was, hadn’t told her husband about the bomb. Maybe they’d try to scare her again. And whoever “they” were was of the greatest interest to Major Ievlev.

He decided that when she was in Tyumen Province, Polyanskaya should be under constant and close surveillance. They might well try to scare her a second time there rather than in Moscow.

It was a quarter past two. Michael had forgotten to pull back the bolt, and Lena had to ring the bell for a long time to wake him and bring him to the door. He greeted them in shorts and a jersey. He was rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Someone tried to open the door,” he told her mysteriously and gravely. “I threatened to call the police.”

Olga shook her head disapprovingly after hearing his whole story. “You’ve been watching too much TV about crime in Russia, and now you’re seeing criminals everywhere. Maybe someone just tried to put their key in the wrong door?”

“You say you saw a tall woman in a dark coat leave the front entrance?” Lena clarified.

“Yes, the courtyard was fairly brightly lit. But the woman may just have happened to be coming out. I mean, it might not have been her trying to open the door.”

Right then the phone rang.

“Oh,” Michael remembered. “Some man keeps calling you, but he doesn’t speak English. All I could get was that he was asking for Lena.”

“Hello,” Lena said wearily, picking up the receiver.

“I’m sorry. I miss you,” she heard a quiet voice that she immediately recognized, although she’d never spoken to this person over the phone before.

“Venya, it’s very late.”

“I know. But I can’t get to sleep without talking to you. At least for a minute. Tell me, did I just imagine what happened this morning?”

“No, Venya, you didn’t imagine it.” Pressing the receiver to her ear with her shoulder, Lena took off her boots and got slippers from the closet for Olga and herself.

“You sound tired,” Volkov said. “I’m not asking you where you were so late. Am I doing the right thing?”

“Yes, Venya. You’re doing the right thing.”

Meanwhile, Michael headed off to bed. Olga shut herself up in the bathroom, and Lena took the phone into the kitchen, sat down feet first on the kitchen sofa, and lit a cigarette.

“I love you,” Venya said quietly. “I can’t live without you. I’ve never said those words to anyone, and I’ve never felt anything like this in my life.”

“And where’s your wife right now?” Lena asked.

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Well, she’s hardly going to like hearing what you’re telling me now.”

“She won’t hear it. She’s not home.”

“What if she finds out? This would hurt her terribly.”

“As it will your husband.”

“Yes, it will hurt him, too,” Lena agreed mechanically.

“What are you doing tomorrow? Can I see you?”

“No. A professor’s come to see me from New York. I’ll be showing him around Moscow all day tomorrow.”

“Is that who picked up the phone?”

“Yes.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixty-two. Venya, you don’t have to be jealous of Michael.”

“I’m jealous of the whole world,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. “You know what, let’s show the American professor Moscow together. It’s much better by car.”

Lena gave it some thought. With Michael there, Volkov was hardly going to come on to her. They wouldn’t be left alone for a second. In that situation, she would be safe. Or nearly so. Most of all, maybe at least something would become clear at last.

“Fine, Venya,” she agreed. “Only I have one request. Michael mustn’t have an inkling of the fact that we… that there might be something between you and me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll act like an old friend. I’ll act however you want me to. What time should I pick you up?”

“Noon. We’ll be downstairs. Thank you.”

This is all too strange, Lena thought after she hung up. Volkov’s wife isn’t home. That doesn’t mean she was the one trying to open the door. But she isn’t home. And Volkov is acting as if he really is in love. He’s prepared to drive a man he’s never met all over Moscow for the sake of spending a few hours by my side. It makes perfect sense to pretend he’s in love, to stay close to me and not take his eyes off me. I am, after all, a danger to him, to his wife, to his empire. On the other hand, he must have the resources to put professional surveillance on me. Why should he do the heavy lifting himself? Is the information I have so dangerous for them that they can’t turn to anyone for help? Even with all their money and connections? And if I possess such dangerous information, why am I still alive? If they’re acting together, why did she try to get into my apartment today? He was calling all evening and knew I wasn’t home. Michael hadn’t just dreamed someone had tried to get in, had he? And if it wasn’t her, then who was it?

No, I won’t solve this puzzle until I find out what really happened in Tobolsk fourteen years ago. What did we see but not notice? Volkov might have done something, and the three of us were indirect witnesses to his crime. Mitya saw more than we did, Olga might not have noticed anything, and I… So now they’re checking me out—what I remember, what I saw, whether I link Mitya’s death to our time in Tobolsk. Mitya remembered everything. He figured it out and took it to Volkov. Maybe if he’d decided to blackmail him, he would have lived. Or not. In any case, he laid out what he remembered. And they killed him, and not in a straightforward way. They staged it all. Nothing here is simple. Just thinking about it is making my head spin.

All this means none of them, under any circumstance, can know exactly where I’m flying tomorrow night. And I need to keep playing the game Volkov’s started.

That this was a game Lena did not doubt for a second. She was very scared, and fear clouded her thinking. She could be doing the wrong thing. She should call Seryozha and ask him to come home. She couldn’t cope with this alone. And no one else could help. Who could she seek protection from if not her own husband? But they could kill her even with him around. If they wanted to. Did that mean they hadn’t decided to yet? Was there hope? Or maybe Olga was right. Maybe Volkov was burning with passion and his wife was afraid of losing him and all his money and wanted to stop their romance before it could start. But then how could she explain Mitya and Katya’s murders? Was she trying to catch the tail of a ghost? And was she chasing the ghost or vice versa?

“Well, you’ve been smoking up a storm!” Olga whispered, slipping out of the bathroom in Lena’s old robe. “Do you have any moisturizer?”

“In my bedroom, on my vanity.”

“Listen, quit worrying!” Olga settled on the stool facing Lena and pulled out a cigarette. “Tell Volkov his wife tried to kill you. Ask him to protect you!”

“Yeah, he’ll protect me!” Lena grinned. “I know exactly how he’ll protect me. Olga, I have a favor to ask you. If someone, under any pretext, tries to find out where I am, please—”

“Polyanskaya,” Olga interrupted her indignantly. “Who do you take me for?”

“I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. I’m so tired.”

“I advise you to tell Volkov everything. At the least you’ll see his reaction and, maybe, you can learn something from that. Although, in my opinion, it’s all perfectly clear. I still remembered how, fourteen years ago, the poor guy got so worked up, his nose started bleeding. He really suffered over you.” Olga grinned. “You know, I still can’t stand the sight of blood. If one of my kids scrapes his knees, I feel woozy.”

“Yes, he was wearing a light sweater,” Lena said slowly. “And it had brown blood stains.”

Before going to bed, Lena set the alarm for nine. She had to call her neighbors in the apartment across the way. The owner of Harry the boxer usually left for work at nine thirty.

To get to question a potential witness in the cardiology department, Misha Sichkin had to spend a long time prevailing upon first the attending physician and then the department chief.

“Galina Sergeyevna cannot be disturbed,” the attending physician insisted. “She’s in serious condition. She had a heart attack, you know.”

“But haven’t they moved her out of intensive care?”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “But after talking to you she may have to go back. You’re going to talk about her son’s death, aren’t you?”

“I promise the conversation won’t take long.”

“All it takes is a few words on the subject for the patient’s condition to deteriorate. It’s not the length of the conversation I am worried about, it is the subject.”

“I don’t think the fact that his murderer hasn’t been caught yet can be helping her condition,” Misha noted somberly.

“That’s your problem,” the doctor snorted.

“I won’t take on that kind of responsibility,” said the department chief. “It has to be approved by the attending physician. That’s the way we do things.”

It seemed like there was no way the hospital administrators were going to allow Misha Sichkin to question Yuri Azarov’s mother. Misha couldn’t drag this out any longer. He decided to take drastic measures. Politely pushing the attending physician aside, he headed decisively for Galina Sergeyevna’s room.

“You’ll answer for this!” the physician called after him. “I’m going to complain to your superiors!”

But Misha had already gone in.

“I’ve been waiting for someone from the police to come,” a plump, pale woman of about sixty said, rising on one elbow.

“You can at least put on a coat,” the attendant demanded, rushing into the room after him.

“Give it to me and I will.” Misha smiled. A minute later a nurse appeared with a starched, snow-white coat.

“Did your son visit you often?” Misha asked when they were finally alone in the comfortable, private room.

“He visited me once a week sometimes, every other week sometimes, depending on how busy he was.”

“Did he ever bring guests?”

“Rarely. Usually he came alone. He could unwind with me. If he did bring anyone, he always warned me, saying ‘Mama, I have a secret meeting.’ Usually if he didn’t come alone, that meant he wanted to have a quiet talk about something important.”

“When was the last time he visited you?”

“Just two days before the shoot-out in the restaurant. You know, he came with some fellow. He even whispered in my ear, ‘Mama, I’m having a secret meeting with a secret agent.’ He said it like a joke, but he was warning me. Not that I need warning. I never told anyone about his meetings. They have their intrigues in show business. It’s a real swamp.”

“Galina Sergeyevna,” Misha cautiously interrupted her. “Please, if you would, tell me more about that meeting.”

“They shut themselves in the room and discussed something for more than an hour. I went in once and brought them tea. I heard a snatch of their conversation, but I didn’t understand a thing. The young man was probably connected to music. They were talking about promotion… You know, all those professional terms.”

“Did Yuri call him by name?”

“Not in front of me.”

“What did the young man look like?”

“Tall and blond. Wavy hair cut short. I worked as a hairdresser for many years. Blond hair rarely curls naturally, which is why I remembered it. His face”—she thought about it—“was nice, handsome even. He looked about thirty, maybe a little more. Gray-blue eyes, and his nose… No, I can’t remember that much detail.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A black sweater, I think, a thick one, knit in English rib, and black jeans. He was all in black. Yes, and I remember he was wearing these big, dirty, worn boots. He took them off in the front hall.”

“Galina Sergeyevna, could you identify this young man from a photograph?”

“No question. I have a good memory for faces.”

“Did it seem to you they were talking calmly?”

“I think so. At least, I didn’t sense any hostility between them. Yuri was a good boy. Even as a child he never fought or argued. Everyone liked him.”

Misha noticed her voice begin to shake and her breathing get labored. He needed to leave. The attending physician hadn’t been trying to be difficult. Azarov’s mother really was still in serious condition.

“Thank you very much, Galina Sergeyevna. You can’t imagine how important what you just told me is,” he said softly. “I won’t bother you anymore today, but tomorrow I’ll bring a few photographs by for you to look at.”

“You can bring them today. I’ll ask the doctor to let you in. Just find his killer.”

I should bring not just photographs but flowers, too, for her and the attending doctor, he thought as he left the room.

Mitya Sinitsyn’s parents were quite surprised when a senior investigator from Petrovka asked them for a few photographs of their dead son.

“Are the reasons for Mitya’s death really still being investigated? We got an official reply from the Prosecutor’s Office. The police never had any doubt that Mitya killed himself,” Mitya Sinitsyn’s mother murmured in a breaking voice as she paged through the family album.

“All kinds of things happen in our work,” Misha replied vaguely.

“Please, return the photos,” the elder Sinitsyn asked. “You do understand.”

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll return everything.” By nightfall, Misha Sichkin knew for certain that two days before the restaurant shoot-out, Yuri Azarov had met with Mitya Sinitsyn. Apparently, the scandal at the release party had made a powerful impression on the singer, so powerful that he didn’t hesitate to seek out the man who had caused it and meet with him secretly, at his mother’s rooms, two days later. That likely meant he was more than a little intrigued by Mitya’s use of the word “killer.” It’s unlikely he took the word figuratively, like all the other witnesses. He alone may have realized that Sinitsyn the scandal maker was not referring to the killing of a career.

With both of them gone, no one now could know what those two discussed. But the result of that conversation was death for both—the successful entertainer Yuri Azarov and the failed songwriter Mitya Sinitsyn. Both murders were subtly staged and bore the same cunning signature.

When her alarm went off, Lena felt as if she hadn’t slept at all. She’d only just shut her eyes, and now she had to get up.

Olga was having breakfast in the kitchen, already dressed and made-up.

“That’s it, I’m off,” she told her, jumping up from the table and finishing her coffee as she walked. “Michael went for a run. Listen, why’d you get up so early? You could have slept in. You can barely keep your eyes open. Okay, I’m off.” She put on her coat and gave Lena a kiss on the cheek.

When the door closed behind her, Lena dialed her neighbors in the apartment across the hall.

“Yes,” the boxer’s owner confirmed. “A woman was waiting for the elevator on our landing at around two in the morning. She looked wealthy. I thought she’d been visiting someone on our floor. I didn’t see which door she came from. She was standing by the elevator. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Do you remember exactly what she looked like?”

“Tall and elegant, about forty. Honestly, I didn’t look very carefully. What is it, Lena? Did she come to see you?”

“Yes. Only I wasn’t home. Thank you very much.”

Lena hung up the phone, thought for a second, and dialed one of the numbers Major Ievlev had given her.

“How are you planning to spend your day?” the major asked after hearing her out. “Remember, your plane for Tyumen leaves at one in the morning. Elena Nikolaevna, what are your plans for today?”

“I’m going to take my American friend around Moscow.”

“Yourself? In your car?”

“I don’t know how to drive. An acquaintance has come to the rescue.”

At 12:10, the major got a report from the tails that the subject and an older foreigner had left for downtown in a black Mercedes. Half an hour later, Ievlev was astonished to learn that the car belonged to Veniamin Volkov. It was a name in need of no comment.

That’s quite some acquaintance you have, Elena Nikolaevna. The major whistled and ordered the surveillance to continue.