Red Ink (14 page)

“Some people said that’s why you wouldn’t make chief. They were right.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t see the connection.”

“Well, you could always return the medals tomorrow yourself, couldn’t you?”

“Uh-huh. Guess I could.”

“So?”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you, Katkov?”

I nod, suppressing a grin.

“Okay,” he grumbles, turning away from me to fetch his hat and coat. “I thought maybe you’d like to be the one to do it.”

I search the pockets of my parka and find the lapel pin the medal dealer gave me. “Shevchenko?” I wait until he turns and toss it to him. “Thanks.”

He snatches the
znachki
in midair and opens his palm. His eyes widen at the image of the infant Lenin centered in the red star—the curly blond locks and cherubic face bearing no resemblance to the fierce-eyed orator. Then he smiles at a thought and says, “The way things are going for your buddy Boris, this one may soon be more valuable than those.”

18

A
high-ranking government official—dead.

A former KGB assassin—dead.

A hitman brought in from Israel—dead.

A Russian journalist—almost dead.

A Moscow
mafiya
chieftain.

A powerful unknown collaborator.

A U.S. Treasury agent.

A set of documents that vanished.

A ritzy gambling club.

A privatization scandal.

A pipeline being built with laundered money—all pieces to the same puzzle; the kind that front-page stories are made of; the kind that will give Sergei a chance to use his witty MURDER FOR PROFIT headline along with an arresting photograph of the medals. Mrs. Churkin will have to wait. Instead of returning them as planned, I return to Yuri’s and begin writing. I’ve no fear of being scooped. Shevchenko isn’t talking. Excellence, not speed, is my only criteria, and I spend the next two days writing.

Though he couldn’t acquire the documents, Yuri does get something important from the Interior Ministry for me—a brand-new package of carbon paper. Saturday morning, he’s up
at the crack of dawn to drive out to his mother’s farm. I’ve worked most of the night and have reached the point of diminishing returns.

“Mind if I tag along? Maybe the fresh air’ll clear my head. Besides, I haven’t seen your mother in ages.”

“I know. She always asks about you,” Yuri replies as I fetch my parka and turn toward the door. “By the way, chances are pretty good I’ll be out there the whole weekend.”

That stops me. My eyes cloud with guilt and drift back to the typewriter. “The whole weekend?”

“Uh-huh. I promised her I’d clean out the barn. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Thanks. On second thought, I’d better not.”

“Figured you’d say that.” Yuri fetches some items he bought for his mother and heads for the door.

He’s halfway through it when I make an impulsive decision. “Yuri? Yuri, hang on.” I slide the rough pages and writing materials into my briefcase, tuck Yuri’s typewriter under an arm, and hurry after him. “Do me good to get out of the city for a few days.”

We head north on the Yaroslavl Highway in Yuri’s aging Lada. It’s a two-hour-plus drive, and I spend the better part of it looking over my shoulder. He’s intent on his driving, but eventually notices.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Old habits die hard when people are trying to kill you.”

“I’d almost forgotten.”

“I’d be a fool to think that
they
have.”

We maneuver through Sudilova’s knotted streets and swing west into the Ustye Valley. We’ve gone about ten kilometers when Yuri turns in to a dirt road guarded by a wind-lashed tree. There’s no name on the mailbox. Yuri’s mother has lived here all her eighty-six years, and the postman needs no reminder. The road forks at a stand of frost-dusted pines. One leg meanders down a gentle slope to the barn and outbuildings, the other to the weathered farmhouse made of stone and split logs.

“Nikasha!” Mrs. Ternyak exclaims, embracing me as if I were her own. Stocky, with a deeply lined face, cracked hands, and cataracts that give her a perpetual squint, she’s Mother Russia
incarnated. She spends the weekend at a cast-iron stove, filling the house with incredible aromas. Yuri spends it cleaning out the barn as promised. A curious task, since the fields haven’t been plowed in decades, and there’s little reason to think this spring will be any different. I spend it watching snowflakes fall past the windows and filling blank pages with almost as many words. I’m making some minor revisions when Yuri returns from an excursion to the local collective where groceries, clothing, and hardware are sold.

“It’s done!” I exclaim, as I rip through the last sentences. I strike the period key with a triumphant flourish, then crank the pages from the typewriter, and whirl to face him. “Want to read it?”

“I already have,” Yuri replies enigmatically. He looks shaken.

“What do you mean?”

He tosses me a newspaper. It’s yesterday’s
Pravda.
I stare at the headline in disbelief. Set above the masthead, three all-too-familiar words proclaim MURDER FOR PROFIT.

I feel as if I’ve been disemboweled. The hollowness quickly turns to anger when I see the by-line reads M. I. Drevnya. It’s all here—the information I gave to Shevchenko, the information he gave to me, and more: comments from anonymous sources impugning Vorontsov’s integrity; charges that
apparatchiks
in the Interior Ministry—who joined the Party out of ambition, not patriotism, and easily switched ideologies—have been embezzling Party funds to buy profitable businesses; and allegations that Vorontsov was killed because he found out about it and was blackmailing them. But it’s Gudonov of State Crimes—hailed as the militia’s canny new chief investigator—who’s credited with breaking the case, not Shevchenko; and a leaked internal memorandum that’s cited as the source.

“I’m really sorry,” Yuri says, his voice breaking. “It’s beyond comprehension.”

I shrug, too stunned to reply. Shevchenko may have upheld our deal, but Sergei sure as hell didn’t. How could he do this? How could he let this fucking kid steal my story?! How could he give him that headline?! Sure, Sergei said he was relentless, ruthless. But I never dreamed . . .

A surge of adrenaline fuels my outrage. I toss the paper aside, grab the phone, and dial
Pravda.
“Sergei Murashev,” I bark when the switchboard operator answers. “When do you expect
him? . . . He was what? . . . You’re kidding. . . . Yeah, you can give him a message for me. Tell him Nikolai Katkov said he’s an unethical son of a bitch!” I slam down the phone, fuming, unable to comprehend it all.

Yuri flinches and questions me with a look.

“Sergei was fired.”

Yuri’s mustache bristles as if electrified.

“Guess who got the job?”

“The kid.”

I nod solemnly.

“What are you going to do?”

I’m devastated. My shoulders sag in reply. Except for the first time I was shipped off to the gulag, I’ve never fallen this far this fast. “Kill him with my bare hands.”

“Well"—Yuri says, pausing until he’s certain he has my attention—"maybe whoever’s been trying to kill you will save you the trouble.”

He’s right. The kid’s name is on the story, not mine. Even if they wanted revenge, I wouldn’t be the target. I almost smile. “Yeah, maybe they will.”

Sunday afternoon, we drive back to Yuri’s apartment in gloomy silence. He settles in front of the television with his trademark bowl of ice cream. I’ve lost my appetite; the mere sight of it makes me queasy.
Novosti,
Moscow’s evening news program, is in progress. Boris Yeltsin’s image fills a screen behind the anchorman, who reports:

“Emerging from yet another rowdy session of Parliament, a beleaguered President Yeltsin refused to comment on rumors that G-Seven governments are about to renege on a billion-dollar aid package. He also claimed he hadn’t seen a story in
Pravda
alleging a scandal at the Committee for State Property, but emphasized that capital flight must be stopped and private investment substantially increased for the economy to stabilize and grow.”

The word
SCANDAL
in bright red letters slashes across the screen as the image of Yeltsin fades.

“However, Chief Investigator Yevgeny Gudonov held a news conference today to confirm that the CSP is under investigation. He also used the opportunity to voice his displeasure with the media.”

My eyes bug at the image on the screen. The man holding
court with reporters is the rumpled, repulsive-looking fellow I’d seen at Militia Headquarters with Drevnya. It’s not beyond comprehension now. Sergei was right. The kid was connected—connected to Gudonov! Incinerator Gudonov. I’d like to incinerate him!

“This is a serious, sensitive matter; not a media feeding frenzy,” Gudonov lectures in a gruff voice. The image zooms in to a close-up, revealing a gold cap flashing amid his widely spaced teeth. “And it will be handled with the care and discretion it deserves.”

“Militia shorthand for cover-up,” Yuri chirps.

“Furthermore,” Gudonov goes on, clearly enjoying his moment in the spotlight, “the person responsible for leaking a confidential militia memorandum will be identified and dealt with harshly.”

“Sure he will,” Yuri mutters. Gudonov’s smugness leaves little doubt as to the identity of the culprit.

“Conniving bastard,” I hiss bitterly, as the pieces fall into place. “Shevchenko filed the memo. Gudonov got his copy, revised it to suit his purposes, and used the kid to put out the story.” I stare at the screen numbly. The images blur. The words disconnect. I’m seized by a compulsion to wash my hands of the whole damn thing. Returning the medals to Mrs. Churkin would be a good start. I call her several times, but there’s no answer. She must be away. At her country
dacha,
no doubt. I haven’t been back to mine in almost a week. It’s cold, depressing, and out of the way, but all of a sudden I miss it. I’m like a wounded animal. I want the comfort of my own cave to lick my wounds and heal. Yuri offers to drive me, but we discover the street has been plowed, and the Lada is buried in snow up to its door handles. We spend a half hour digging it out, only to discover it won’t start. In a cruel joke, winter always saves the worst for last when Muscovites have had their fill of snow and subzero cold.

I wait until morning and treat myself to a taxi again. Its windows are gray and gritty like the sky, like the passing streets, like all of Moscow at this time of year, like my mood. Lyublino does little to brighten it.

A moving van is parked in front of my building when I arrive. Two men are coming down the steps, carrying a rolled-up rug on their shoulders. I have the cabdriver circle the block in case
whoever’s been trying to kill me hasn’t seen Drevnya’s by-line in
Pravda
yet. No Israelis in trench coats. No discarded athletes in leather jackets. No Volvos with thugs in Ray-Bans. The building isn’t being watched.

This time, when the taxi turns the corner, the men are struggling to carry a chest of drawers down the steps. The cabdriver stops in the middle of the street next to the van. I stuff a wad of rubles into his fist and get out, hurrying past the movers. Wait a minute. That dresser. There’s something familiar about that dresser. “Hey? Hey, what’re you doing with that?”

“Carrying it to the van,” the gaunt one replies with a facetious snarl. “Why?”

“Because it’s mine. I didn’t make any arrangements to move. There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake, comrade,” the mover growls. “I have a work order to clean this place out and put everything in storage.”

“You sure you have the right address?”

He lets go of his end of the dresser to show his exasperation. It lands with a dull thump and settles into the snow as he trudges to the front of the truck and yanks open the door. “Number eleven Kurskaya, second floor rear, Katkov?” he asks, brandishing a clipboard.

“That’s me.” I’m totally baffled. For the first time in years, I’m caught up in my rent. So I know I’m not being evicted. “I don’t care what that says. Put that dresser back where it belongs. Put it all back,” I demand, noticing they’ve already loaded most of my other furniture.

“Sure, soon as you pay the charges.”

“Charges? Look, just get it through your head, I’m not paying for anything. Put it back or I’m calling the police.”

“Be my guest. You have ninety days. After that, the stuff can be sold to cover the charges. If it doesn’t, and you can’t come up with the balance,
we
call the cops. That’s the law.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but—”

“Nikasha? Nikasha?” Mrs. Parfenov calls out. The old
babushka
is standing in the vestibule, waving a folded newspaper at me.

“Just a minute, Mrs. Parfenov,” I shout, loath to abandon my belongings.

“Nikasha? Nikasha, it’s important.”

“Don’t leave until I come back,” I warn the movers as I hurry off across the icy pavement.

“Someone was looking for you,” Mrs. Parfenov hisses when I join her.

“You know who?”

“It was a few days ago. I don’t remember,” she croaks, then admonishing me adds, “I haven’t seen you for almost a week.”

“I’m sorry, I . . . I was away. What did they look like? Did they have a fancy car? Leather jackets? Running shoes?”

She shrugs, her eyes darting about warily. “I think there were two of them. Maybe three.”

“You think? Were they tall, short, fat, skinny?” The movers charge past us into the building for more booty. “Any chance it was the militia?”

Mrs. Parfenov shrugs. “Sunglasses. Sunglasses and a shaved head.” She shuffles into her apartment. Sunglasses? Shaved head? I hurry after her, wondering what Ray-Ban was up to. The place is empty except for a chair with a broken leg and some packing crates.

“What the hell’s going on around here?”

She tucks the newspaper under her arm and sits on one of the crates. “I told you. Sunglasses and a shaved head.”

“No, I mean with the movers.” My frustration soars at the sight of my desk being carried through the vestibule. “They’re taking all my things!”

“Oh, that,” she says as if I’d mentioned the weather. “We all have to be out by today. The new owner must’ve hired them to—”

“New owner?” I interrupt, flabbergasted.

“The building’s been sold. You know.”

“No. No, I don’t know.”

“Of course you do. You’re the one who told me, it’s legal to own property now.” She shakes her head disapprovingly.

“Yes. Yes, I know that, but—”

“One of those groups you’re always talking about. What do you call them? Free . . . free something?”

“Free enterprise?”

“Yes,
maklers
,” she hisses with disdain, using the German word for broker that has become part of our language. “Young smart alecks. They were here once. They said they bought the building from the State.”

“From the State?”

She nods matter-of-factly.

“But your family owned the building before the Communists confiscated it, didn’t they?”