Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 36

Misha heard the announcement that the plane from London had landed, and he got even more nervous. Krotov was about to deplane, and Misha was going to lay it all out for him straightaway, from beginning to end—Mitya, Katya, the stroller bomb, and the fact that Lena had been abducted by Curly. No one knew where she was or whether she was even alive. All they knew was that Curly didn’t joke around. The mere thought of what might happen to Lena Polyanskaya made Misha’s stomach hurt. He could only imagine what it would be like for Seryozha.

Krotov was waiting for his bags. He had two hefty suitcases full of presents—for Liza, Lena, and Vera Fyodorovna—as well as souvenirs for his friends and coworkers. The only thing that saddened him was that Lena wasn’t going to meet him at the airport. She wasn’t due to fly in for another four days. He decided that today he’d catch up on his sleep, and tomorrow morning he’d go see Liza at the holiday house. He’d missed his family terribly.

It was just after midnight when he finally pushed the trolley with the two hefty suitcases into the arrivals hall. And immediately saw Misha. He could tell from his face that something bad had happened. Very bad.

There was a black Volga waiting at the taxi stand. The driver, Kolya Filippov, known by his coworkers for many years as Filya, smiled broadly, got out of the car, and opened the trunk. They stowed the suitcases, got in the car, and Misha continued the story he’d begun in the airport terminal. He tried not to leave out any important details.

Filya made a quick maneuver by the Sokol subway station—stepped on the gas and dashed across the intersection in front of a big black truck.

“We have a tail,” he commented without looking around. “There’s been an SUV following us since the airport.”

“Contact traffic police to cut them off,” Krotov said. “Did you get a look at the license?”

“Don’t insult me, Sergei Sergeyevich!”

The Volga was already entering the square in front of the Belorussky train station.

“Too bad about Ievlev.” Misha sighed. “He was a good guy. Listen, Seryozha. Do you think this was Gradskaya’s work, too? Could it just be a coincidence? The Tyumen Federal Security guys are saying that Curly mistook the American for someone else. Curly’s got major deals going in America. It’s odd that he let the professor go so easily. He’s still here, no one has tried to touch him. Poor guy, he’s a wreck over Lena.”

“Misha, how’s your English?” Krotov asked.

“I took German in school. Most of my dealings with Barron have been through an interpreter. But he knows more than I thought. You need to get together with him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Filya.” Krotov turned to the driver. “Do you know the fastest way from here to Volokolamsk?”

“I’m on it, Sergei Sergeyevich. The road’s empty now. We’ll be there in an hour. Do you want to contact the guard at the holiday house?”

“No. The guard has probably been bought off already. Does anyone have a gun?”

“I’ve got my pistol on me,” Filya responded.

“Me, too.” Misha nodded. “Listen, Seryozha, where are you planning to take Liza and Vera Fyodorovna?”

“That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” Krotov said through his teeth. “The main thing is that they’re still there. Filya, I think the tail is back!” Krotov noted a cherry-red Toyota behind them.

“Maybe we should call in a support team?” Filya asked.

“Let’s try to handle this ourselves, quickly and quietly. Go out on Tverskaya and head toward Petrovka. You’ll turn off onto Chekhov Street just for a minute. Misha and I will get out there, and then you’ll take the Toyota to Petrovka. Judging from the tails, they know I’m here. The main thing now is that we get there first.”

Krotov reached over the seat for Filya’s radiophone.

“And lend me your gun,” he said, dialing.

Fifteen minutes later, the three occupants of the cherry-red Toyota got worried. The Volga they’d been following had evaporated somewhere after the Mayakovsky station. But they soon heaved a sigh of relief. The Volga was going slowly down Chekhov, probably headed for Petrovka.

At the intersection of the Garden Ring Road and Kalyaevskaya Street, hiding behind two glass and concrete towers, were two prerevolutionary buildings with connecting courtyards. A gray Zhiguli drove into one of the courtyards, barely making a sound. It braked slightly and Krotov and Sichkin got in. Behind the wheel was First Lieutenant Gonchar, whom they knew well. Twenty minutes later, the Zhiguli was racing down the deserted highway to Volokolamsk at top speed.

When they drove up to the tall iron fence around the holiday house, it was a little after two in the morning. They parked the car away from the gates. Gonchar stayed back in the Zhiguli, and Krotov and Sichkin hopped the fence. Skirting the building, they discovered the front door was locked. There was also a door through the kitchen, but it had a padlock on it. Krotov leaned his head back and assessed the rickety fire escape, but right then Misha noticed a small window that had been left slightly open over one section of the dining room.

Vera Fyodorovna slept with one ear open. She woke at the soft, cautious knock on the door, turned on the small sconce over her bed, and looked at the clock. It was 2:40. Maybe I dreamed it? she thought, and she was about to turn off the light when the knock was repeated.

She threw on her robe and tiptoed barefoot to the door.

“Who’s there?” she asked in a whisper.

“Vera Fyodorovna. It’s Seryozha.”

“Seryozha! You’re back! But what’s going on?”

She clicked the lock. Seryozha quickly slipped into the room, followed by Misha Sichkin. They locked the door behind them.

“Vera Fyodorovna, please pack yours and Liza’s things,” he whispered in her ear and walked over to the balcony door, closed the small window, turned the bolt on the upper lock, and pulled the drapes tightly closed.

“Seryozha, what’s happened?” She was already getting the suitcase out of the closet.

“I’ll explain everything later. Right now we have to be quick. Get yourself dressed, and I’ll dress Liza. And Misha will pack the suitcase.”

Liza wasn’t at all surprised when she opened her eyes and discovered her papa pulling her snowsuit on right over her pajamas.

“Papa!” She threw her arms around his neck, closed her eyes again, and murmured, “I’ll just sleep one minute more. I’ll sleep and you carry me. Okay?”

“Yes, Liza. You sleep while I get you dressed.” Sergei pulled woolen socks on her bare feet and immediately fell still.

He heard something going on either in the next room or on the next balcony. The building had gone up in the early 1970s, and you could hear a rustle through its thin walls. Picking up the sleeping Liza, Sergei tiptoed out into the tiny hall, where Misha, squatting, was stuffing everything into the suitcase as quickly as he could. A dressed Vera Fyodorovna came through the door to the connecting room.

“Who’s staying in the next room?” Seryozha asked her in a whisper and nodded at the wall, on the other side of which sounds could be heard again.

“Some very nice young men. They arrived here a few days ago. They videotaped Liza.”

That moment, there was a gentle knock on the other side of the balcony door. When he was going around the building, Seryozha had noticed that the neighboring balconies were separated by low gratings. Hopping from one to another was child’s play.

“That’s it! We’re out of here,” he whispered.

“But we’re not done packing,” Vera Fyodorovna remarked in dismay.

“Nothing will be lost. Just be sure to take your documents.” Misha Sichkin quickly latched the suitcase and put it back in the hall closet. “Someone will come for your things later.”

“My monkey!” Liza said loudly without opening her eyes.

Vera Fyodorovna stepped over to the bed, retrieved the plush animal out from under the blanket, and reached to turn off the light, but Seryozha stopped her.

“Don’t. Keep it on,” he whispered.

The glass of the balcony door tinkled softly. On the balcony, someone was trying to look into the room through the tightly drawn drapes.

Trying not to breathe, they left the room for the dimly lit hallway. Misha, leaving last, closed the door without making a sound. But despite his caution, the lock clicked anyway.

“I can’t see a damn thing,” the thug told his friend in the next room.

He only had his underpants on. He’d just come back from the balcony and was huddling from the cold. He felt like diving back under the warm blanket.

“Quiet!” the second thug sitting on the bed and listening through the wall shouted at him in a whisper.

“Oh, cut it out,” the first one yawned. “The old woman probably just went to take a leak. Don’t get so worked up! Where are they going to go at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Shut up, I said!” The more conscientious thug leapt silently from the bed, cracked the door, and looked out into the hallway.

It was quiet there. Not a sound. Just in case, he stood there a little longer, listening to the sleepy, nighttime silence of the holiday house. He was interested in the stairs at the end of the hallway. He wasted no time reaching them and leaned over the railing. But it was quiet there, too.

That’s ridiculous, he told himself. They couldn’t have made it down to the first floor already. I would have heard them.

The thug knew Curly would rip his head off if anything happened to the child or the old lady. But everything was calm for now. It was true, where were they supposed to go at three in the morning? Just because they’d made some noise, what did that mean? Sometimes old women can’t sleep, and sometimes children wake up in the middle of the night to go pee or to get a glass of water. He went back to the room, where his friend was snoring peacefully.

The conscientious thug listened to the silence in the next room. “They’ve been asleep for a long time, for sure!” he growled, gave a relaxed yawn, and went back to bed.

The stairs and elevators were to the right down the hallway, but to the left, at the other end of the hallway, there was a small sitting area with armchairs, a magazine table, and a television. The small niche was separated from the hallway by two narrow screens. Right now it was completely dark there. Krotov had decided to wait there in the darkness for a bit just in case and not to go directly to the stairs. Whoever was rustling in the next room and trying to look in from the balcony was bound to check the stairs as well. And it was virtually impossible for the four of them to descend swiftly and silently from the eighth floor.

Vera Fyodorovna heard the cautious steps and pressed her hand to her mouth. The steps moved away as the man walked toward the stairs. It was quiet for a few minutes. Then they heard the steps again. They were getting closer. Vera Fyodorovna’s heart was pounding madly. But the steps died down in the middle of the hallway. Somewhere near their room a lock clicked. They waited a few more minutes and then quietly headed for the stairs.

“Well, where to now?” Gonchar asked when they were finally all in the car.

“I have to think,” Krotov said.

Liza had slept soundly through the whole escape, her arms around her papa’s neck.

“Maybe to my place?” Misha suggested.

“They’d find us.” Krotov shook his head. “It wouldn’t take them long to figure out we were there.”

“Seryozha, why can’t we go home?” Vera Fyodorovna asked.

It was time, Krotov knew, to explain what was happening to the woman who up until this moment had acted courageously and hadn’t asked any questions. Only now, in the car, did her voice start to quake.

“Vera Fyodorovna,” Krotov began cautiously. “I’m in trouble. It is related to my work. For a while, it would be better if you and Liza stayed somewhere safe.”

“I knew it.” Vera Fyodorovna sighed. “In the courtyard on Malaya Gruzinskaya… it was Liza’s stroller that blew up. That’s all the neighborhood is talking about. I kept hoping maybe… My old school friend lives not far from here, on Lugovaya. She lives alone, and the house is big and warm. She gave her apartment to her son and moved into their dacha. We can go there. She’ll be happy to have us.”

“Yes.” Seryozha nodded after a second’s thought. “That may not be a bad idea.”

“Seryozha, they won’t hurt Lena, will they?”

“Don’t worry, Vera Fyodorovna. They won’t get to her. She’s far away,” Sichkin answered for Krotov. “By the time she gets back, all will be well.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ll do our best.”

Lena could tell something had happened. It had been evening for a while, but they seemed to have forgotten about her. She didn’t know whether that was good or bad, whether it was better to remind them she was here or to sit tight.

She’d already thought through the broad strokes of her conversation with the bald man. But only the broad strokes. Of course, Gradskaya might well know the bald man. But she couldn’t imagine her hiring such a high-level figure as a killer. She could hire one of his hitmen, but then Lena would just have been shot.

Gradskaya had probably called in a favor and asked him to deal with Lena. But those kinds of requests require explanations. And laying out the truth to the crime boss was the last thing she’d do. She’d probably had to make up a story for the bald man that suggested that Lena and Michael represented a danger for him personally. For example, she could have said Michael was a big American mafioso, a competitor with his eye on Russian oil and gold. No, that was ridiculous. Lots of Russian crooks were in America, but there weren’t any American gangsters here yet. And a story like that would be easy for the bald man to verify; it wouldn’t require kidnapping her. What wouldn’t he be able to verify through his criminal networks? Say Gradskaya hinted that Michael was a CIA agent. Now that made more sense.

Why did I ever accept Volkov’s offer to drive Michael around Moscow? No, I didn’t, she immediately objected to herself. I was just keeping the game going. I had no choice. But as a result they found out where I was going and who I was going with. But they would have found out eventually. They would have found a way. None of that matters now. What’s important is to decide whether to tell the bald man the whole truth. But what if they don’t believe me? It’s a serious and unexpected accusation. I wonder why my visit to Malaya Proletarskaya raised such a reaction—with Sasha and with the bald gangster? Vasya Slepak, the convict known as Blindboy. What makes him so interesting?

The door opened. The deaf-mute rolled a cart into the room. On it were two open-faced cheese sandwiches, an apple, a banana, and a large cup of strong tea.

“Thank you,” Lena said.

She had no appetite, but she needed her strength, so she forced herself to eat nearly all of it. The young woman stood there, leaning against the wall, observing her. But Lena didn’t mind her gaze, which seemed warm, sympathetic even. Before taking the cart away, the deaf-mute touched Lena’s arm and nodded at the tiny toilet nook. At first, Lena didn’t understand her, but the young woman took a contoured lipstick out of her pocket and nodded again.

They went into the cramped nook together, and the young woman closed the door and started writing quickly in lipstick on the white tile. Your daughter is all right, Lena had time to read.

The deaf-mute immediately wet her handkerchief and wiped off the letters. Lena wanted to take the lipstick out of her hands, but the young woman shook her head and moved her lips expressively. Lena understood her. In a slow whisper she said, “Thank you. What’s happened?”

Last night someone took her away. Searched all day. Didn’t find her. The letters disappeared again.

Lena’s heart beat fast and joyously. Of course! Seryozha was supposed to arrive last night. Misha Sichkin managed to tell him everything. Seryozha understood and acted.

Don’t let them see you know, the young woman wrote.

“Yes, of course,” Lena whispered, and all of a sudden she asked, “Who is Blindboy?”

Killer.

The letters immediately disappeared. Lena realized the conversation was over. Without looking at her, the young woman quickly took the cart out. The lock clicked. Lena took off her boots, sweater, and jeans. She sat down on the bed in her jersey and tights and lit a cigarette. She felt as if she’d just been let out into the open air from some dusty black sack where she couldn’t breathe. Now she felt like washing herself from head to toe, brushing her teeth, and getting some sleep.

She washed with soap and warm water, gargled, put her folded sweater under her head, and covered herself with her jacket. Did Vasya Slepak really become a killer? she thought, and then she fell asleep. The light of the bare lightbulb in the ceiling didn’t keep her from sleeping. When they woke her up, it was nearly morning.

“Get up and get dressed,” she heard the crude male voice of the thug Vadik and opened her eyes.

“I need to wash up and brush my teeth,” Lena said after pulling on her jeans and lacing her boots. “Please be so kind as to bring me a new toothbrush and toothpaste.”

For a few moments Vadik said nothing, just looked at her stupidly and blinked. Then he went and got her what she needed to get ready.

She took her time. She enjoyed brushing her teeth and carefully and slowly combed out her tangled hair with that idiotic comb meant for a close crew cut. Vadik stood there and waited patiently.

The bald man was back in the living room sitting in the same white leather armchair. Once again, the heavy dark drapes were drawn tight. Whatever was outside the windows—a town, a village, or a remote taiga—Lena couldn’t see.

“Good morning,” Lena said, and she sat across from him.

“Hello.” He nodded. “Well, have you come to your senses?”

“Before we begin, I would appreciate it if you would introduce yourself. If I’m going to talk to you, I have to know what to call you.” Lena looked him straight in his yellow, unblinking eyes.

“You can call me Vladimir Mikhailovich. Or Curly. Whichever you prefer.”

“Pleased to meet you, Vladimir Mikhailovich.” Lena tried to smile graciously. “I have to warn you that this conversation is going to be long. And confidential,” she added, and she nodded in the direction of Vadik.

The thug, standing in the doorway, snorted contemptuously.

“And because of that,” Lena continued, “you and I should first drink some coffee. And breakfast wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” Curly shook his bald head. “But, okay, we’ll do it your way. Hey, Vadik,” he said to the thug. “Get us coffee and something to eat.”

“Tell me, Vladimir Mikhailovich,” Lena asked when they were alone. “Did Regina Valentinovna Gradskaya tell you about my trip?”

Attack is the best form of defense. She would try to ask him the questions and not wait for him to ask his own. Watching his reactions was the only way she could survive this conversation.

His first reaction was a rather long and tense silence and a hard stare. But she withstood both the silence and the stare.

“That, little girl, is none of your business,” he rasped at last, quietly, and he coughed into his fist.

Excellent, Lena thought. He did get his information from Gradskaya. Let’s keep going.

“Regina Valentinovna, as an old friend, informed you that a mysterious American, most likely connected to the CIA, was coming here. And he would be accompanied by an interpreter. Not just any interpreter but one with her own connections to law enforcement. Am I right?”

Curly took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it while looking silently at Lena.

“Being a smart and cautious woman,” she continued. “Regina Valentinovna did not go into detail. She said the information was vague, possibly just a rumor. By doing that, on the one hand, she sparked your curiosity, and, on the other, she was insuring herself against the possibility of you finding out that Michael Barron wasn’t a CIA agent after all. Actually, it’s very hard to verify something like that. But you never know… Life is full of surprises. And Regina Valentinovna by no means wants you to think she is deliberately misleading you.”

Vadik appeared with a tray. The smell of eggs and bacon filled the room. While he was putting plates, cups, and the hot coffeepot on the table, Lena said nothing. Nor did Curly, though he continued to look hard at Lena. In another situation she might have curled up into a ball under that kind of icy, penetrating gaze. But right now she couldn’t allow herself the slightest hint of fear.

“Thank you, Vadik. It’s delicious,” she said as she sent a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

“Go,” his boss growled at him. “And close the door.”

“I would like to note,” Lena continued once Vadik had left the room, “that in fact it’s not at all hard to verify this information. You don’t even have to do anything, just think about it.” Lena sipped her coffee and started buttering a piece of white toast. “A real CIA agent would be much younger. He would speak excellent Russian. He would work quietly and discreetly. And no one—not Regina Valentinovna or anyone else you know—would have informed you of his arrival. Even if she were in possession of such information, she’d hardly be telling you. You’re not her husband, right? Why would she take such a serious risk? For the sake of your friendship? My point is that this affects her personally. Well, her and her husband, Veniamin Borisovich Volkov. The CIA, FBI, and our Federal Security have absolutely nothing to do with this.”

Lena finished her buttered toast and her coffee, lit a cigarette, and told the crime boss everything she knew, starting with the events of fourteen years ago, and ending with her conversation the day before yesterday with Regina Gradskaya’s mother. She cautiously skirted any personal details and just set out the facts as she knew them. Curly listened silently and intently. When she finished, a dense, almost explosive silence reigned in the room.

It was an eternity before he said a word.

“What you’ve told me is very serious. I’ll have to verify it.”

Lena nodded. “I understand.”

“You’re going to have to stay here in the meantime.”

“What about my daughter?” Lena asked, remembering what the deaf-mute had communicated to her earlier. “Are you going to stop threatening her?”

“We’ll leave your daughter in peace.” He relaxed back into his chair and added, “For now. Then we’ll see. By the way, when does your husband get back?”

“Tomorrow night,” Lena told him without blinking. “Vladimir Mikhailovich, if I am going to stay here while you verify my story, I have a few personal requests.”

“Go ahead.”

“A hot shower, clean sheets, slippers, and a mirror,” Lena listed. “Yes, and a blanket and pillow, too.”

“No problem.”

“There, Nina. Now we need to get everything we can from her. She’s a gold mine.”

Nina’s strong, warm hands kneaded Curly’s hairy back in smooth, practiced movements. A beautiful cathedral with three cupolas tattooed in many colors of ink was clearly visible through the gray fluff.

“You know what I realized when she told me all that, puss? You can’t know, you can’t even guess!” He groaned and turned over on his back, caught Nina’s hands, and squeezing her strong wrists, pulled the young woman toward him.

Her kind face came very close. Her straight, light brown hair tickled his shoulder.

“I’m getting old, that’s what,” he exhaled into her soft, mute lips. “Kiss me.”

She slipped out of his hands and began calmly unbuttoning her long silk blouse.

“Ten years ago, Nina, I would have finished off that viper with my own hands. It’s a thief’s code of honor,” he continued, watching the blouse fall to the thick rug. “There isn’t room on this earth for snakes like that, to say nothing of in prison. Six girls! In prison they don’t forgive even one. They sodomize him right off.”

Nina was chilled, standing there naked. But he kept talking.

“You know how much their business is worth?” He squeezed his eyes tight. “And it’s all going to be mine! Right down to the last kopek. They’ll hand it over without a murmur. When they find out who I have here, they’ll hand it over immediately. They aren’t afraid of the court or the prosecutor. They’re afraid of the disgrace, which is worse than death for them. And here’s their disgrace, alive and unharmed, sitting with me and asking for a blanket and pillow.”

Nina quietly started dressing, but Curly didn’t even notice, carried away as he was by his own monologue.

“Regina’s problem is she thinks there’s no one smarter or cleverer in the world than her. She thinks she can outwit anyone, even me. Fuck that!”

He shook his heavy, hairy fist in the air. “She’s outwitted lots of people. But not me. Fuck it!”

His fist slammed into the hard edge of the bed and fell still. His fat-fingered hand unclenched and fell limp.

“But I’m getting old. In the old days I would have smeared Regina and her pervert all over the wall, and that would have been sweeter than all their wealth. I would have spat on their wealth. To an honest thief, honor is more precious than anything. I’m not that man anymore. I’m getting old. And times have changed. These aren’t my times. They’re for other people.”