Londongrad (16 page)
Then, suddenly, he bent over, his head bowed, his arms wrapped around himself. Like an immense turtle, a creature from prehistoric times, he seemed to pull himself inside his shell, make a shield, protect himself from this body blow.
“I’m sorry.”
“How?”
“Somebody put a pillow over her face while she was asleep,” I said. I didn’t know this for sure, that she had been asleep, but I thought it would help him if he thought she had been sleeping.
“I wish they killed me instead.”
For a minute, he stayed where he was, head on his knees, breathing too hard, gasping for oxygen, his right hand on his left arm, as if he expected a heart attack. What he finally sat up, I thought he might hit me.
Instead, he simply said in Russian, very formally, “It is not your fault, Artemy.”
He picked up his phone, got up from the chair, went to the kitchen counter, found a second cellphone lying on the stretch of dark marble, began making calls on both of them and only turned back to me to say, “How is it I didn’t hear this on the news?” he asked.
Roy Pettus had kept his promise. Nobody had reported the story. If he could keep it quiet, Pettus had real clout.
“You fixed this?” Tolya said to me.
“Yes.”
“Good,” said Tolya. “Artemy, they tested her? They did tests?”
“For what?”
“Radiation, they have antidotes, I understand this, I know about this, my God, get her tested,” he said as if Val were still alive. He was going crazy while I watched, helpless.
From the kitchen I followed him to the living room, but he moved away to a window where he pressed his face against the glass, his back to me as if he couldn’t stand to hear anything else I had to say. And then, without knocking, the man I had seen in the street came in. He went quickly across the room to Tolya and seemed to make a little bow.
With a square head and brown crew-cut hair, he was about five ten and compact and ordinary. When he removed his black linen jacket, there was a gun in his waistband, and his white shirt was tight across the muscled chest. His face was expressionless. The only odd thing about him was that a piece of one ear was missing.
Without saying anything, the man watched Tolya attentively, like a soldier waiting for orders.
Tolya picked up a pack of cigarettes lying on the white marble mantelpiece and lit it with a match. I had never seen Tolya smoke anything except the big cigars or light up without the solid gold Dunhill as big as a brick. When he looked at me, his eyes dull, face sagging, there was nothing left of my old friend.
Suddenly exhausted, I went to the room next door, glimpsed my haggard face in a long gilt mirror, slumped on a chair, called Bobo Leven in New York and left a message. Wake up, I said. Test her, I said. Test the apartment. Test for anything, alpha gamma, cesium, red mercury, polonium-210.
It was what Tolya wanted. I didn’t believe Val had been poisoned, but he had asked me. At least he would know I had done something.
When Bobo called me back, he argued about the testing, and I started yelling, “Do it. Just do it.”
“I am going to New York now,” said Tolya, coming into the room, sitting on a chair next to mine. “Please tell me everything.”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
“Tell me now.”
So I told him. I told him about the dead girl, Masha Panchuk. When I showed him her picture, he remembered she had worked at his club in New York a few times and wanted to tend bar, but she was too young and didn’t know anything about wine. I told him about Tito Dravic, the nightclub guy in Brooklyn who had disappeared.
“Talk about Valentina,” he said.
“We were going to have dinner. She never showed up. I looked for her, I went crazy, then somebody said they saw her on a red Vespa. It wasn’t her. By the time I got back to her place, she was there, on the bed, like I told you,” I said.
From somewhere deep inside him I heard a faint noise, as if of pain, an animal whimper.
I thought he might implode, that he might collapse inside himself like one of the Twin Towers.
I put out my hand.
“Did the creep who killed Masha kill Val?” he said.
“We can talk on the plane.”
Tolya got to his feet.
“I need you to stay here in London for me,” he said. “Somebody reached out to her from this side, I have to go to New York to collect her body, to make sure nobody touches her. I can’t be in both places. Will you stay here for me?”
“Tolya?” I reached out to touch his arm.
“Yes?”
“I’m coming with you. I know what went on in New York, I can show you, I have leads, I have people working this, please. I need to be there, with you, and for Valentina.”
There would be a funeral, I thought to myself. I had to be there. I had to say goodbye or it would never ever leave me, the feeling that she was still alive, that I could call her and hear her voice.
He glanced at me. “You loved her,” he said. “She was your family, too.”
“Of course.” I saw he didn’t know the rest of it, about Val and me. “Of course,” I said again. “Like you.”
“Ride with me to the airport,” he said. “I’ll try to explain.”
Tolya was half out of his mind. Voice calm, manner determined, but in his eyes I could see it. He started out of the room. I followed him.
“Please, stay here,” he said. “You don’t understand, do you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“For Russians, London is the bank, the offshore island, the money, and where is money is killing, where people are rich, criminals come, more and more and more,” said Tolya. “I did some bad deals, Artemy. I took too much.”
“You want to tell me?”
“I’ll try. Five minutes,” he said, and left me alone in the beautiful room with curly plaster ceilings, a fancy fireplace and on the mantel, red orchids in black and gold porcelain pots.
We left the house ten minutes later. Tolya was wearing a plain dark suit, no tie, and carrying a tan raincoat. In his hand was a small canvas suitcase and a plastic bag. No gold Rolex, no Guccis. On his feet were plain cheap black shoes with laces, the kind an accountant or a teacher might wear.
He climbed into a black Range Rover and gestured for me to follow him into the back. The guy in the linen jacket was in the driver’s seat. He turned his head, and looked at Tolya who nodded. For a surreal second or two, I thought the driver was going to kill me.
“I have arranged a plane,” said Tolya as we set off.
Biggin Hill, he said, private airport, a Gulf Five would be waiting. He had borrowed it, had called friends who could make a plane available.
London passed outside the window in a blur. We got on some motorway. At the edge of it nondescript houses, big box stores, anonymous malls passed. I barely looked out. I waited for Tolya to speak. I didn’t ask about the plane or its owner.
“Again,” he said. “Tell me.”
I took him through it all again, especially Val’s disappearance, her death, what I saw, heard, thought, knew. I told him who had been working the case, what kind of people were on the job, how high up I had taken it, everything. I recited the details as if I were officially on the job, reporting to a superior. It was what Tolya wanted. I described the playground, the silvery duct tape, the girl on the swing—Masha Panchuk—her blue eyes, her hair, her resemblance to Valentina.
He didn’t speak, just nodded, making me go on and on, stopping me only for the detail. I thought it would choke me, getting the words out to tell him how Val looked on the bed, the little gold cross, the green summer dress neatly arranged. There were pictures of her Bobo had taken for me with his phone but Tolya didn’t ask and I didn’t offer.
For most of the trip he spoke Russian to me. He talked fast. He was jumpy.
“Did you know I met Sasha Litvinenko?” said Tolya suddenly.
“I think you probably said.”
“Poor bastard, they killed him with polonium-210, fucking poured it in his tea and it ate him up from inside. He was a decent guy. And I went on believing I was safe, that anyone could be safe.”
Ivan, the driver, from the shift of his shoulders, his head, the way he positioned his body, it was as if he was trying to hear what Tolya was telling me. It was only a feeling I got, but it made me uneasy. If somebody killed Val to get at Tolya, who could he trust now? Who could I trust? Maybe Tolya was right. Maybe whoever killed Valentina, it was set up out of London.
Trees hung down over the road. The sky, low, dark, filled with scudding black clouds, seemed to lie across the countryside like a dirt blanket. We were someplace in the countryside now, winding roads, low-lying houses, an old pub with a thatched roof, planes overhead, rain.
“Let me go on,” said Tolya.
“Yes.”
“I tried to believe Litvinenko only had bad luck, bad karma. I wanted to believe in London, in British justice, in a civil society. I was happy here,” he said softly. “And the theater. I was raised with this idea of great theater by my parents, Artyom, and they loved this language, this English, as beautiful as Russian and bigger, a big language, flexible, opulent, dirty, poetic. What writers! What actors! I consider language reveals the soul of a place, that it is the soul. I was entranced. I even become big-time member of these great theaters, I become Olivier Circle Member of Royal National, imagine, and I go and I meet actors and I see everything,” he added as if in a daze. “What the fuck am I talking about?” Tolya sat up. He put his cigarette in the ashtray, rubbed his face. “I thought I’d stay here for good.” He raised his shoulders, a kind of shrug of despair.
“You know when it first hit me?” Tolya went on. “That there was no place safe, no place good for me?”
“When?”
“I discovered that the guy who killed Litvinenko was on British Airways flights between Moscow and London. That same month, he took many flights. He left a radioactive trail. People were tested, the planes were cleaned up, they said. They said it was clean. I didn’t believe it. Artemy?”
“Go on.”
“I was on two of those flights, and Valentina was with me.”
Did Tolya think he had been poisoned? That Val got a dose of polonium on those flights between Moscow and London? It was nearly two years back. And I thought that, knowing she was dead, he had lost his mind.
For a few more minutes, we rode in silence.
“Talk to me,” I said, while Ivan manoeuvered over country lanes and I saw a sign for the airport. “If I’m staying in London, tell me who, who doesn’t like you, who did you do bad business with, who do you owe? If you think somebody killed Val to get at you, I have to know.” I put out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray and waited.
“So many,” said Tolya. “I was trying to tell you, there was the polonium on the planes, there were people who wanted me on those planes, and still I didn’t believe it. You think I’m crazy? So I’m crazy. But people said Sasha Litvinenko was crazy.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yes, but other things. Little things I ignore, I say, no big deal, and then you arrive and tell me they killed Valentina,” he said. “Now I believe it. All of it.” Tears filled his eyes and ran down his big cheeks. Tolya made no noise, but his face was wet. “Now, just like that, this morning, like I wake up from a dream, I see it. London is only like a Potemkin Village, a façade, the more beautiful it is, the more corrupt, the more great art inside mansions, the more brutal the people. It has a rotten heart of money.” He stopped, winded. I put out my hand to touch his sleeve. Gently, he pushed it away.
“You’re saying they hurt Val because of London?”
“They can reach out any place. Not hurt, Artemy, we do not need these euphemisms. They killed her. Murdered her. Slaughtered my girl. I never talk to you about business. You don’t question me. We’re like
goluboy
in the military, you and me: don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“I don’t like to upset this balance,” he said.
“What balance?”
“I know you keep a balance between friendship for me and not being involved with all my shit, so you can be proper policeman, and I honor this in you, Artemy, this moral code.” He pulled another fresh cigarette from the pack, lit up with a throwaway orange Bic.
“That’s what Val said.”
“What did she say?”
“Something about a moral code.”
“You and Valentina were close?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m asking you a question,” he said.
“Sure, she said I was her Uncle Artie.” I looked straight ahead. I asked him for another cigarette. He passed me the pack and the Bic lighter. I lit up, I drew in the smoke, and blew it out hard, as if it would make a screen between us.
“Where’s your gold lighter?” I said.
“I left all my things, jewelry, everything in the apartment. You take what you need, what you want. You see? You understand?”
He didn’t want anything on him that would identify him, not his wallet or lighter or his fancy shoes. It didn’t make sense because people everywhere knew Tolya, but it made sense to him now. He figured if somebody killed him, he didn’t want them taking trophies.
“Artie?” He put his hand on my arm. Tolya almost never used my American name. I didn’t know why he used it now. “Tell me,” he said, and for a second I thought he meant Val, I thought he meant about Val and me, and I didn’t know what to say.
“This girl, Masha Panchuk, I saw her picture on TV,” said Tolya. “I should have said something. I recognized her only afterwards, the next night, I was already in bed, and I thought, should I call Artie, and then I fell asleep. So what, I said to myself. So she worked for me only two days last winter. I didn’t want trouble.”
“It wouldn’t have changed things.”
“Guys like me can always change things,” he said. “I could have helped her. I could have called you when she was dead and said I knew this girl. Maybe it would have made a difference for Valentina.” He closed his eyes. “I always worried about her. Not just for silly stuff, like she stays out late, but more deeply, you understand?”
“Can you tell me about it?” I said.
