16

Darkness has fallen, and it’s well below zero when Scotto and I leave the Paradise. On a night like this, it’d be worth being fucked to death just to have her sensuous body smothering mine with its warmth, but she doesn’t offer, and I don’t ask. Instead, she wishes me luck and, with a sarcastic cackle, says to look her up if I live long enough to visit my cousin in Brighton Beach; then she hails a taxi and takes her winnings and biting sense of humor back to the U.S. Embassy.

I’m walking to the Metro, wondering if FinCEN’s watching me, when I start having second thoughts about returning to my apartment. Last night I was angry, depressed, and drunk, not to mention with a woman. What’s more, the hitman was dead, and I vaguely recall thinking it’d be a while before the medal dealers found out he’d blown the assignment. But now I’m pretty damned sure they didn’t hire him, and I’m concerned whoever did might find someone else to finish the job. No. No, my apartment is off-limits. It isn’t safe, and—Ludmilla! Damn, I forgot all about her.

I find a public phone and dial my number. There’s no answer. She probably got tired of drinking coffee alone and went home. I sure as hell hope so. I’ve no idea where she lives, which is unfortunate, because neither does whoever’s trying to kill me. It’d be a perfect place to stay for a while. Any place is better than mine. Even Vera’s. I know I’m asking for trouble, but I call her at work anyway.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“I’m busy, Niko,” she says curtly.

“I’m in trouble. I need a place to stay.”

“Hey, I did my bit. I didn’t even get a thanks. Ask one of your other girlfriends to help you.”

“They’re not my girlfriends. Come on, give me a chance to explain. I—”

“I told you, Niko. It’s finished.” The line clicks and goes dead.

“Vera? Vera, you there?” I slump against the wall of the booth, feeling sorry for myself, then drop the receiver on the hook, jam my fists into the pockets of my parka, and head off into the darkness.

I wander about the city, cold, tired, and hungry, wishing I could afford a hotel room. About a half hour later, I find myself in front of Yuri’s apartment. His window is dark. He’s not back from work yet. I climb the three flights, nauseated by the smell of boiled cabbage that fills the stairwell, and camp out on the landing. Several hours pass before I hear the trudge of footsteps.

“Why don’t you get it over with and move into your office?” I tease as his head rises into view.

“Believe me, I’ve thought about it.” He holds up a mesh sack stuffed with canned goods. “I snuck out early tonight. My mother always gives me a list of things to bring on Saturday.”

“How’s she doing?”

He waggles a hand. “She’s old. She’s lived a long life.” He shrugs philosophically and leads the way inside. “By the way, I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can get them,” he says, referring to Vorontsov’s documents.

“It’s okay. Really. I—”

“I tried everything, believe me,” he rushes on, removing his coat and gloves. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been destroyed.”

“Figures. Thanks for trying.” I settle in a chair next to a radiator that could heat the Kremlin. The whole apartment is barely larger than my sleeping alcove but on days like this, I’d trade in a minute. “Actually, I dropped by because I need a place to stay.”

“Oh? Why, what’s going on?”

“Well for openers, I fell off the wagon and into bed with another woman.”

Yuri winces, sending the ends of his mustache to the corners of his eyes.

“Naturally, Vera caught me.”

“Naturally.”

“To make matters worse, she was smack in the middle of a tantrum when another woman shows up. Tall, vivacious, bronskis out to here.”

“Naturally,” he cackles, starting to loosen up.

“Vera takes one look at her, throws her newspaper at me, and takes off. So, there I am, nasty hangover, one woman in bed, one at the door, and one on the run. I’m not sure what to do. So, I go after Vera. I’m more than halfway down the hall before it dawns on me I’m stark naked . . .”

Yuri’s laughing so hard he can hardly speak. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “How’d you get hooked up with . . .” He lets it trail off, suggesting I supply her name.

“Ludmilla. Moscow Beginners. I couldn’t handle it. Neither could she. We ran into each other at Liquor Store Twelve over on Vekova; ended up at my place drunk as skunks.”

“And the rest is history,” he concludes, still laughing.

I nod sheepishly and laugh along with him.

“Now,” Yuri says, suddenly more serious, “I know why you can’t stay at Vera’s place. You want to tell me why you can’t stay at yours?”

“Someone’s trying to kill me.”

“Naturally,” Yuri says with a solemn nod. He has the patient look of someone who’s spent his life raising a child who can’t seem to stay out of trouble.

“I’ve no idea who.”

Yuri nods again, then fetches a carton of vanilla ice cream and two bowls. He plops a large scoop in the center of each and drowns them in peach brandy. “Might as well fill your veins with alcohol and save the embalmers the trouble.” We spend the rest of the evening doing just that and discussing my encounter with Agent Scotto.

The next morning it’s so cold, frost covers the windshield of Yuri’s Lada. But by some miracle the engine starts, and he drops me on the Kremlin side of the Krymsky Bridge on his way to work.

My fear of assassins gives way to nostalgia at the sight of an old building on the far bank. Dingy and gray, hidden by the massive bridge abutments, the four-story edifice—current home of MGIMO, the prestigious Institute for International Relations—once housed Tsarevich Nikolay Lycée, a school founded in 1868 by my great-grandfather M. N. Katkov. I recall my parents being proud that he taught democratic principles and once traveled to America; and as a child I spent hours watching the river ferries and wondering if any of them went there. They’re not going anywhere today. The frozen Moskva has them locked in its wintry grasp, a thick, monolithic sheet of ice that will hold them captive until spring.

A bone-chilling wind snaps me out of it as I come off the swaying span. It’s a short walk to the House on the Embankment. I hurry through the lobby with the familiar sounds and smells and take the elevator to Tanya Churkin’s apartment.

A girl of about seven, clutching a Barbie doll, opens the door and leads the way inside to Vorontsov’s study. Mrs. Churkin is on a ladder, handing things down to a pale-faced boy who stands amid piles of books, papers, photographs, and numerous boxes. He’s a few years older than his sister and eyes me with appropriate suspicion.

“I’m sorry. I hope this isn’t a bad time,” I say as Mrs. Churkin climbs down to greet me. “I didn’t know you were moving.”

“We’re not,” she explains in a tone that suggests she wouldn’t mind it. “I can’t come in here without getting upset. And the children—they’re in one small room. Now they can each have their own. My husband, I mean ex-husband, was supposed to do this. But . . .” she scowls and lets it trail off.

“I understand.”

“You have some news for me?”

I nod solemnly. “He died. I should’ve taken him to a hospital.”

“Please,” she protests. “I’ve enough misery. I’m interested in my father’s medals. Nothing else.”

“They’re not for sale.”

She pauses, her arms filled with books, and looks at me with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. “Does that mean you found them?”

“No. It means I was right all along. They’re not on the black market. Never were. Never will be.”

“Why not? Why steal them otherwise?”

“To make your father’s murder look like robbery.”

“More speculation?” she flares, throwing the books to the floor. “Or have you proof he was involved in this . . . this scandal you mentioned?!”

“No, but I’m betting he was. Of course, which side of the street he was working is another matter.”

“What are you suggesting, Mr. Katkov?”

“That your father was either ripping off the government, or about to blow the whistle on someone who was.”

“I assure you it was the latter.”

“That’s for the militia to determine.”

“Then we have nothing more to talk about,” she says, turning her attention to the packing.

“I guess not,” I reply, winking at the children, who aren’t sure what to make of all this and keep their distance. I’m about to leave when I notice a briefcase on the floor next to the desk. It looks like the one Shevchenko used to take Vorontsov’s documents back to his office. My pulse quickens at what it might contain. “The police returned your father’s briefcase?”

“Yes, when I picked up his things.”

“Have you been through it?”

She shakes her head no.

“Mind if I have a look?”

She studies me, deciding, then shrugs in a suit-yourself gesture.

I put it on the desk and discover a bulging manila envelope inside, the kind the police use to store evidence. It contains: a watch, wallet, ring, currency, loose change, checkbook, keys, pens, pencils, a pack of cigarettes, a paperback novel, and some business correspondence—everything but the elusive documents.

I turn my attention to the briefcase. The file dividers and pockets are all empty, as are the four penholders. However, one of them feels rigid, as if a pen had been inserted upside down in the leather sleeve, then removed, leaving the cap behind. I press my thumb against the bottom to force it out. The object won’t budge at first; then all of a sudden it breaks free, shoots through the air like a tiny missile, and goes rolling across the polished floor.

The children giggle and scurry after it. The boy elbows his sister aside and retrieves it for me.

My eyes widen with intrigue. What I thought was a pen cap turns out to be a cigarette lighter—a butane cigarette lighter from the Paradise Club.