Rostnikov vacation

THREE

The grinning man with bad teeth standing in Yon Mandelstem's shower was a plainclothes policeman named Arkady Zelach, known to the other inspectors on the fourth floor of Petrovka as Zelach the Slouch.

Arkady Zelach was a hulking, out-of-shape man who lived with his mother in the same small apartment in which he had been born forty-one years earlier. He had become a policeman because his father had been a policeman. He had never considered doing anything else, nor had his parents. Since he had neither brains nor intuition, Zelach relied totally on the judgment of his superiors and his mother, which made him quite valuable to both. He was loyal to his mother, whom he understood perfectly, and to Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, whom he under-Stood not at all.

He grinned, not because he found the naked man in front of him, who was not really Yon Mandelstem, funny, but because it seemed the best face to wear when in doubt. People who didn't know him tended to think he was amused by something they had said or done. But that was only true of people who didn't know him.

' 'Why are you hiding in the shower?'' asked Sasha Tkach, motioning Zelach out.

Zelach moved to let Sasha reach in and turn on the shower.

"I didn't want anyone to know I was here," Zelach said while Sasha waited for the water to grow tepid enough to step under.

Tkach didn't bother to respond. He simply nodded and touched his face. He needed a shave.

"Go watch the door," Tkach said. "If someone breaks in, shoot them."

This Zelach understood.

The real Yon Mandelstem was a computer programmer with the Ministry of Labor in Leningrad. The apartment in Building Two of the Friedrich Engels Quartet had been obtained in the name of Mandelstem, who had been transferred to the Ministry of Labor in Moscow. However, the real Yon Mandelstem never got to Moscow, nor would he ever get there. He was in Saratov, using yet another name while he assisted for one week in the computer training of young men and women who would be operating the offices of McDonald's hamburger chain as it expanded throughout the Soviet Union. If anyone checked, they would find Sasha Tkach, with Mandelstem's identification, using Mandelstem's computer at Mandelstem's desk, though no one expected anyone to check. Following his week in Saratov, the real Mandelstem would leave the Soviet Union and immigrate to Israel. The papers had been prepared quickly and quietly, and he had been informed and told to pack within three hours for his trip to Saratov and then out of the country.

Mandelstem, who looked very little like Sasha Tkach, had been quite willing to go, had even kept an emergency suitcase packed.

This, Sasha thought as the water went from cool to cold, was not the first time he had been away from Maya and the baby. In the past, there had always been the sense of temporary respite, primarily from Sasha's mother, Lydia, who had lived with them until just a month ago. Lydia had been the guilt and burden of his life.

Now Sasha and Maya and their daughter, Pulcharia, who was almost two, had their own apartment, and there was a new baby on the way. Times were uncertain, and there were

those who still thought that a second child was foolish. Perhaps, he thought, they were right. In any case, he wanted to be home. He was thirty years old, no longer a boy, and he wanted to be home.

He scrubbed himself angrily. Rostnikov and Karpo were both on vacation, but he, he had to not only remain on duty but to stay away from his wife. The image of the woman, Tamara, in the lobby suddenly came to him, and in spite of the cool water, he found himself growing erect, which made him even angrier. He turned the metal handle all the way, but the water grew no colder nor the spray more powerful.

Think of the work, he told himself, scrubbing with the rough bar of soap he had brought with him from his and Maya's apartment. He forced himself to think about the other decoys in the field. He did not know how many there might be, but the Wolfhound had said there were others, others from different MVD branches, others with backup officers like Zelach.

There had been thirty reports of computer theft-breaking and entering apartments where people were known to have computers. Always apartments, never homes, always single men or women. And almost always Jews or people with names that might be considered Jewish. In seven cases, the break-ins had taken place while the computer owner was home. In all seven cases, the owner was beaten, beaten brutally. In not one case had a witness other than the victim been found who heard or saw anything in spite of the obvious noise. In none of the seven cases in which the victim had been present had any of them been willing to give a clear description of their assailants, for there was no way the police could protect them from retribution and all of them had been threatened with such retribution before they were beaten.

And so Sasha had been given a crash course in the computer, not enough to make him an expert but enough for him to do the work at the ministry, which he had done for almost two weeks, two weeks in which he had not seen his family, had only spoken to Maya three times by telephone, had only heard Pulcharia's voice once, saying, "At'e'ts. Father." Unbidden, he thought of Tamara again and grew even angrier. He shaved with the overused razor he had been using for a week and began to sing resolutely. Perhaps he would use his time to really master the computer. Perhaps he would ask to leave the MVD. There was probably no future in working for the Wolfhound. When Rostnikov had been demoted, Sasha had joined him because he wanted to continue to work with Rostnikov, but he also knew that in the end he had no choice. He was one of Rostnikov's men.

Sasha nicked his cheek. He sensed blood but ignored it, though he could not ignore the truth. He would not quit. It made little sense. Maya had said that it was because Sasha had never known his father that Rostnikov had become a father figure. Maybe, Sasha admitted, it was something like that.

He put the razor down on the little metal rack hanging from the shower head and rinsed off, being careful to place the precious bar of soap carefully back in the rack, where it would not be worn away by the shower water. A trickle of blood from his cheek joined the water going down the drain. He stopped singing abruptly and watched it dreamily. His hand reached up and turned off the water, but Sasha did not move. There was a mirror outside the shower, but he did not want to look. He touched the washcloth to his cut and tried to awaken from the trance.

When he pushed back the curtain, Zelach was standing there with a look of concern on his face.

"Are you all right?"

In fact, Zelach was the superior officer. In practice, they both knew that Sasha was in charge. Zelach had seen other policemen go into a zombie mode. It was usually the smart ones, the sensitive ones, like Sasha. When it happened, these officers were sent on vacations, from which some of them returned, while others went on to become clerks or bartenders.

"I'm fine," said Tkach, reaching for the towel on a hook outside the door.

"You're bleeding," said Zelach.

"I know," Sasha said, stepping out. "I'm fine. Go back in front of the door. I 'm fine.''

Zelach turned reluctantly and obeyed.

Sasha dried himself slowly and then wiped the moisture-covered mirror and looked at himself. On the surface it was an innocent, youthful face with a spot of blood on the left cheek. It was not a Jewish face, but many Jews he knew, including Rostnikov's wife, did not have faces that were particularly Jewish looking. He reached for the glasses and put them on. Even then he did not look Jewish, though he did look like a sloo 'zhashchee, an office worker, a bureaucrat. The thought depressed him. He dressed quickly, determined to go out and find a phone so that he could talk to Maya and hear Pulcharia's voice before her bedtime.

Yakov Krivonos looked down at Carla's body. Her red hair spread out, framing her face, and the blood dripping from her nostrils mingled with it. He would write a song about this moment, even though the dull streetlight robbed the scene of its true color.

It suddenly seemed very important that he remember Carla's last name. She had told him once. It was something like No 'veey got, New Year. No, no, it wasn't.

She was certainly dead, and since he had thrown her out the window, the least he could do was remember her last name. Looking down at her did nothing to help him. Someone behind him on the compact disc player shouted with joy. A breeze sucked in through the shattered window, trying to push Yakov gently back. He considered, seriously considered, leaping from the window ledge. He was almost certain he could fly, well, not quite fly, but keep himself suspended by will, moving slowly down. Yes, he could do it. He seemed to remember having done it before. He stepped onto the ledge.

Then he saw the face of death look up at him, and he hesitated. There, floating white below him, moving forward across the street, eyes fixed on him, the face floated in a sea of black. Perhaps if he jumped death would catch him.

He looked around for Jerold, almost called for him to come and see the face of death, but Jerold had dropped Carla and gone home. Yakov looked down again, and death was no longer there.

What had Carla done? It had only been seconds ago, and yet he couldn't remember what had caused him to push her through the window. It had something to do with … Yes, she had called him a name, but what name? What difference did it make?

Far away he heard the sound of a police siren. Amazing. Could they be coming this way already? Where had this sudden efficiency come from? Reluctantly, Yakov Krivonos stepped back from the window and looked around the^room. It would be better to leave. He did not want to die before he saw Las Vegas, but what should he take with him?

He stepped over to the table and scooped most of the remaining capsules Jerold had left him into his palm and then plunged the handful into his pocket. He repeated this twice. The money on the table he folded over and stuffed in his rear pocket. His two-handled blue canvas bag with "Miami" emblazoned on it lay on the bed. He walked slowly to it, scooped it up, and moved to the CD player.

Yakov began dropping the CDs into the bag. Music continued as he worked. It was, he thought, like a scene from Miami Vice. He had three videotapes of Miami Vice.

Jerold had watched with him, telling Yakov what was happening. Yakov loved the dealers, the wild dealers, who took, killed, laughed. They were alive. The police on those shows were bores who triumphed not because they were better but because it was time to end each episode.

That was it. Yakov had what he needed. The sirens loomed closer. He moved to the window and looked down again. Three men and a woman stood around Carla's body.

Another woman knelt at Carla's side.

"Leave her," Yakov shouted. "She looks beautiful."

They looked up at him, startled, transfixed.

Yakov shook his head at then" stupidity. He rummaged through the bag of CDs, finding one by Sting. Carla had liked it. Yakov hated it. She could have it. He hurled it down, launching it with a flip of the wrist. The silver disc sailed past the windows below, skimmed the top of the car Carla had hit, and shot over the head of the kneeling woman. The people scattered, and Yakov wasn't sure whether to find another expendable disc, take another capsule, or just get out.

He was reluctant to simply leave. Carla had given her life for this moment.

The other movie Jerold had shown him, the other one Jerold liked, the one with James Cagney. Jerold had said that Yakov looked like James Cagney. This did not please Yakov at first, but he had gradually grown used to the idea.

Yes, standing in this window, he was ready to explode. "Look, Mother. On top of the world," he shouted in English.

But Yakov was not going down with the building. He turned away from the window and headed for the door. The CD was still playing. How could that be? He had fought with Carla about it, and she had been dead for hours or minutes.

His hand was reaching for the knob when someone knocked once.

Yakov pulled his hand back as if the knob were white with heat. He knew who was at his door. Death was at his door. He should welcome Death. Better, he should kill Death. Then everyone would live forever. Rules would have to be made so there would be no more babies or the world would overflow.

Yakov looked at himself in the mirror next to the door, the mirror in which Carla spent so much time admiring herself. The gnome with orange hair arranged in five spiked points grinned at him. His orange shirt, which matched his hair, was buttoned at the collar, and his jeans were properly faded.

Death knocked again, and Yakov shouted, "Wait a moment. I'm thinking."

What would happen to someone you killed if Death died? This was profound. Jerold should hear it. If the sirens would stop, if the music would stop, if Death would be patient, Yakov would have the riddle of life solved. Before he was even eighteen, Yakov Krivonos would be famous, or he would be if he chose to be, if he chose to share his secret with the world.

"Fuck them," he said. "It's mine."

"Police," the voice of Death said. "Open the door."

Yakov reached into his canvas bag for a trick and came up with his Sturm.44mm Blackhawk revolver. Yakov had to put his canvas bag down so he could hold the nearly three-pound gun in both hands. He leveled the 7 1/2-inch barrel at the door and waited for Death to knock again.

There was no knock, and Yakov sensed that he had little time. Death might not be so easy to stop. He put the revolver down and reached back inside the canvas bag for a second weapon, a compact rifle he held at his side, his left hand on the pistol grip, his right steadying the stock of the weapon.

He fired, holding the rifle steady, as Jerold had taught him. A hole appeared in the door, and the bullet sang across the hall and through the door of the next apartment. He fired again. Another hole. From outside in the hall a woman screamed, and a man shouted at her to shut up.

Yakov moved to the door and fired twice more. And then he opened it and stepped out. Death was not on the right but standing at the end of the corridor on the left, blocking the stairwell about twenty yards away, a small pistol aimed at Yakov, whose rifle hung at his side in his right hand.

"Drop the weapon," Death said, and Yakov sighed.

It wasn't really fair. Carla had been twenty-three. She had lived five years longer than Yakov would, for Yakov knew he would not drop the weapon, that he would lift it and aim and fire and that the man who was certainly Death would shoot him before he could do so.

The shot came before Yakov could get his weapon into both hands. It came howling over the nearby siren, the music, the crying woman in the apartment across the hall. Yakov paused. The bullet had gone through him or missed. There was no pain. Death turned and fired down the stairwell at his right. Yakov raised his rifle and aimed at Death, who stepped away from the stairwell, raised his right foot, and kicked at the door of an apartment. The doors, as Yakov knew, were made of thin pressed wood. He had kicked his in three times in the month he had been using the apartment. So it was no surprise that Death disappeared into the apartment as Yakov fired, blowing a fist-sized hole in the corridor wall.

"Yakov," Jerold called.

"Yes," Yakov called back, firing again.

Jerold stood at the top of the stairs, gun in hand. Jerold, so confident, a bearded aristocrat, a gangster, a real gangster, just as Yakov wanted to be.

Jerold was teaching him many things, weapons, organization. Jerold was teaching him English so that Yakov could live in the United States, in Las Vegas, when it was over.

"Come on," Jerold called.

"My discs," Yakov called.

"No time," Jerold said calmly. "Come with me. We'll get more."

"You can't get Madonna," Yakov said, looking back at the apartment but walking toward Jerold. Tears were coming to his eyes. The loss of Madonna was too much to bear, was too unfair, given the miracles of this night.

"Yes, I can," said Jerold, who had his gun trained on the door of the apartment through which Death had plunged. "Let's go."

Something stirred inside the apartment. Jerold fired and nudged Yakov down the stairway.

"Hurry," Jerold commanded without the slightest sign of panic, although the police siren had stopped very close by.

Jerold covered their retreat to the next landing and urged Yakov down the hall to an apartment that was unfamiliar to the young man. Jerold tucked his pistol away, took out a key, opened the door, and ushered Yakov inside. The room was dark. Jerold closed and locked the door.

"Stand still," he said, and Yakov could hear Jerold's feet move across the wooden floor.

Yakov's stomach gave a first warning. He was coming down, coming down from whatever height he had reached with the help of the capsules. He did not want to come down. He wanted to remain in the dark and float, upside down, right side up, until there was no up or down. And then came a panic.

"Lights," he said. "Lights."

A light came on from a kitchen alcove on his left, and he could see Jerold, and behind Jerold he could see a woman seated at a small table. The woman's arms were taped together and then taped behind her head. Her legs were taped, too, as was her mouth. Her eyes were wide, tear-filled and frightened.

"Come," said Jerold, who turned to a window behind the woman.

Yakov moved past the woman, pausing to stare into her eyes. His nose almost touched hers, and he tried to smell her fear and see himself in those frightened eyes.

"Carla is dead," Yakov said in English, following Jerold to the window and slinging the rifle over his left shoulder. A wooden plank about two feet wide lay between this window and an open one in the next building, four feet away.

"I know," said Jerold softly, also in English. "I saw her. Go ahead."

"Shouldn't we kill her?" Yakov said, pausing to look at the woman, who whimpered.

"There's no reason," said Jerold. "The policeman saw us both."

"It was a policeman," said Yakov with a laugh, gripping the shoulder strap of the rifle. "I thought it was Death."

"Crawl," said Jerold.

And Yakov went through the window, and over his shoulder and the barrel of the rifle, against which he rubbed his cheek, he whispered, "You can get Madonna?"

"Yes," said Jerold. "You'll have much more than Madonna after Thursday. Just be ready."

"Walther and I will be ready," Yakov said. "We will be ready."