10

I’m making notes, but I’m in a cell in the bowels of 38 Petrovka, not a classroom. I’ve got plenty of material for a piece on the black market in medals. The crackdown will make it all the more interesting, assuming I get out of here to write it. Fortunately, Shevchenko decided not to put me in with the dealers, and I’ve got a cell all to myself. I’ve been cooling my heels in this dank, wretched-smelling pigpen for over four hours when the jailer delivers a cell mate.

Bald, bearded, and rotund, the poor fellow looks like a refugee from a monastery. He throws his coat on the wooden bench in disgust, looks the place over, and scowls at me. “So, what are you in for?”

“I got caught in a sweep of medal dealers.”

“Ah, a black marketeer.”

“No, I’m a free-lance journalist. I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You?”

“Exploitation of meat.”

“Spekulatsiya?"

“Da, spekulatsiya. I bought beef in Smolensk at a very low price, and sold it in Moscow for a big markup.”

“And they arrested you? Sounds like you’re a smart butcher to me.”

“Tell them that.”

“I will.”

“Actually I’m an engineer.”

“An engineer? You sure don’t look like one,” I say in English, falling back into an old habit acquired during my years in the gulag. It was automatic with a new cell mate, a subtle way to expose informers, since most political prisoners spoke some English while most KGB plants were illiterate dullards who didn’t. We nailed several that way, until the warden caught on and imported English speakers to spy on us. We also spoke it so the guards wouldn’t understand. Sometimes we’d talk about the weather just to piss them off. “Where’d you get your degree?”

“Degrees,” the meat peddler replies in English, his voice ringing with defiance and pride. “Both from Moscow Polytechnic Institute.”

“A fine school.”

“Finest school,” he corrects, continuing in English. “Then the whole hell broke loose. One minute I am having career, and the next, nothing.”

“Defense cutbacks?”

“Yes, yes, cutbacks. The obsession with having democracy. It makes everything ruined.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“You are in favor?”

“All my life.”

“So was I. So was family. Until they learned what will be the cost. Until wife won’t be having the dress. Until son won’t be having the cassette player.” He pauses and smiles in a way that indicates he’s about to make a clever point. “Until they see Viktor hawking the meat to make the ends meet.” His smile broadens. “Pun intended.”

“Very good, Viktor.”

He preens. “Now, they long for Communists.”

His English isn’t as good as mine, but it’s more than adequate. I’m not surprised. Most university graduates in our age group speak it. Those who were fortunate enough to be raised by educated parents and sent to elite schools, as I was, do so quite well. I’ve resumed my note-making when a familiar voice calls out, “Katkov?”

It’s Shevchenko. He stands outside the cell with a smug grin, enjoying the sight of me behind bars.

“You just here to gloat, or what?”

“No. Someone vouched for you. I can’t imagine why.” He nods to a guard, who unlocks the cell and leads me out.

“What about him?” I ask, gesturing to Viktor.

“Not a chance,” Shevchenko replies sharply, as the cell door clangs shut behind me and we start down the corridor. “He doesn’t have a knack for merely being underfoot like you. He’s a grifter and has to be taught a lesson.”

“You’re very big on lessons these days, aren’t you, Mr. Investigator?”

We pause at a security door. His eyes sweep over my bruised face and disheveled clothes. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

“Makes two of us,” I retort sharply.

The door rumbles open, and he leads the way past a massive outprocessing area. A mesh fence contains the surly mob of prisoners, lawyers, friends, and relatives who are lined up at three windows where clerks work with listless detachment. It’s like shopping in a department store: one line to place your order, one to pay, and one to pick up the goods.

I recognize several medal dealers in the crowd. Unfortunately the long-haired one recognizes me and lunges at the fence like a wild man, his fingers clawing at the mesh, hair snapping around his face. “Informer! Fucking informer!” he shouts, making the obvious assumption when he sees me with Shevchenko. “We’re not finished with you yet, Katkov!”

I ignore him, hurrying after Shevchenko, who’s at the elevator, impatiently thumbing the call button. “How come that nutcase is getting out, and Viktor isn’t?”

“Because Viktor-the-grifter exploits food.”

“Come on, he’s not a grifter, he’s a speculator. Guys like him are what make free-market economies work.”

“I don’t think I’m up to this, Katkov.”

“You’d better be. You’re going to have to live with it for the rest of your life. The bottom line is—and by the way that’s a term you should become familiar with—instead of prosecuting Viktor, you should set up five more speculators in the meat business.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why?”

“Because more meat will be available, and competition will drive the price down. You know a lot about laws. This one is called supply and demand.”

Try as he might, Shevchenko can’t stop his brows from arching. “Very clever. But it has nothing to do with Vorontsov’s murder. That’s what’s keeping me here till midnight and getting me out of bed at five in the morning to bust medal dealers.”

“Your old lady still getting pissed off?”

“None of your business.”

“Business. Very good. Your free-market vocabulary is expanding.”

“The bottom line is,” he says pointedly, “this may not be a scandal, but it’s still a homicide. And I’ve got to solve it.”

“By locking up medal dealers? The poor bastards are only trying to earn a living.”

“So am I. It sends a signal. They know they’ll be harassed until someone comes up with information on Vorontsov’s killer.”

“You’re assuming they have it.”

“No. I’m assuming that squeezed hard enough they’ll make it their business to get it.”

The elevator deposits us on the fourth floor. We navigate the labryinth of depressing corridors to Shevchenko’s office.

“In case you’re wondering, I’m sparing you the humiliation of being processed like a common criminal.” He falls into his chair like a rag doll and pushes my paperwork across the desk. “Sign these.” There are at least a half-dozen forms. Vera is listed as the person who vouched for me. I begin scrawling my signature beneath hers. Shevchenko leans back, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. “She’s moving out,” he says softly.

“Pardon me?”

“My wife. She’s leaving me. She and the children.”

I’m caught completely off guard, taken by his surprising vulnerability and willingness to share it. An awkward moment passes before I regain my composure. “I’m sorry.”

Shevchenko shrugs forlornly, then, shutting me out, swivels around and stares at a photograph of his family atop a file cabinet behind him. “You’ll find Miss Fedorenko downstairs.”

I whisper, “Thanks,” and hurry from the office. While searching the maze of corridors for the elevator, I turn a corner and catch sight of a familiar face through the window of a conference room. It’s Drevnya, the kid from Pravda. He’s writing furiously on his notepad while an obese man in a rumpled suit circles the table, slashing the air with emphatic gestures as he talks. His back is to me at first; then, reversing direction, he reveals himself to be a repulsive fellow with thick lips, scarred complexion, and small eyes that briefly catch mine. I’ve no idea who he is, but Sergei said the kid has connections here. I guess he does.

Vera is waiting in the lobby, reading another book from my library when I join her. She looks up and frowns with concern. “You look awful.”

“Long night.”

“You should’ve called.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I mean when I beeped you.”

“Oh,” I exclaim, recalling it vaguely. After all that’s happened, it seems like a week ago. “Too much going on. I couldn’t. Why?”

“I was on duty when the Lenin Hills operation got the green light.”

“Why’d you wait so long?”

“Well, it didn’t seem important at first. Then when you didn’t show up at the apartment, I thought maybe you’d gotten a line on the dealers. Obviously, by then it was too late.”

“The story of my life.”

“You’re your own worst enemy, Nikolai.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Vera.”

“This isn’t the time or the place.”

“Come on,” I say, directing her aside. “You know how I hate it when you play these games.”

“Okay. If you really want to know, why can’t you take a job like a normal person?”

“You’re really hung up on that, aren’t you?”

“Most people are.”

“That’s not the answer, and you know it. Besides, I’m not a normal person.”

“Thanks for sharing that with me.”

“What you see is what you get, Vera. I can’t be someone else. I thought you respected me for it.”

“I did. I mean, I do. I—”

“I don’t need this.”

“Neither do I, Niko. I can’t keep bailing you out of trouble. I can’t keep funding your crusades. I—”

“You wouldn’t have to if you’d get me copies of those documents like I asked.”

Her eyes flare as if something just dawned on her. “God. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? That’s all I am to you. An inside source. A spy. Well, I’m sick and tired of it. Tired of taking chances. Tired of"—she pauses, face reddening with anger, eyes welling with emotion—"tired of being used.”

“Vera, I . . .”

She turns and starts walking away.

“Vera? Vera, listen to me, dammit.” I catch up and take her arm.

She jerks it loose, throws her head back defiantly, and strides across the terrazzo to the revolving door that spins her into an icy haze.

I’m torn between going after her and going back to Shevchenko’s office and suggesting we commiserate over the contents of his hip flask. Instead, I take a few moments to convince myself Vera will get over it—she always does—light a cigarette with a cocky flick of my new butane lighter, and head for my apartment. I’ve got a story to write.