Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (57 page)

The reward was paid.

Ellomas!
Just as Alyosha had suspected.
It must have been one of the senior people there, a manager.

So now what? When the partners met, they decided unanimously that they should go no further without help from the police.

Was that unethical?

But whose ethics were being violated?

Tolkovyanov phoned Kosargin.

~ * ~

Yes, there was
something to that young man. Kosargin had been deeply impressed by his meeting with him today. How could you ever expect it? Once he was just a lanky student playing at being a dissident. We should have packed him
off
somewhere deep in
Yakutia
and been rid of him. But now he has this lavish, seven-story glass palace and he
’
s making these huge business deals. Businessmen line up at his bank when they need help to cover a temporary shortfall in their budgets. And he
’
s staked out a place in this grim and foul age of ours as if he
’
d been born into it.

You, on the other hand, are over forty and used to law and order, and no matter how you twist and turn, you still can
’
t fit yourself into this new world.

The Organs! Was there anything as eternal and unshakeable as they? Was there anything in the last days of the USSR that was more dynamic, more vigilant,
more
resourceful? What a group of select young people with higher education had poured in during the Andropov years! Kosargin himself had only a law degree, but alongside him worked physicists, mathematicians, and psychologists. A career in the KGB offered tangible personal benefits, interesting work, and a sense that you were having a genuine influence on the future of your country. These were the bright young lads who worked with the aging, ossifying veterans. (Though what a wealth of experience those veterans had.)

And suddenly this whole structure, more elegant and beautiful than the Moscow skyscrapers, did not collapse, to be sure, but was punched full of holes, and cold winds blew through the cracks that had developed from the misunderstandings, doubts, and the manpower drain of those who were frightened. Some left voluntarily, some through staff reductions, some moved to the management of the Union of Veterans. There were still others who were drawn into these same new businesses. The latter were first seen as traitors to the Cause;
then they were envied as smooth operators who had struck it lucky; many wondered if there was still time to follow their example.

If only, through some miracle, the Organs could regain their former power, their significance. But could that ever happen? They
’
d let the opportunities slip past them. And where was it all leading? He did not have the mind to foresee it.

Kosargin despised the defectors from the KGB and would not allow
himself
to follow their example. But the cracks in the old structure, which had once been so solid, were opening ever wider, and the winds that blew through it carried away things that would never return. The most serious weakening had been in their self-consciousness, the loss of their Higher Purpose. And so Kosargin left—not as a traitor to the cause, but to take a position that was still of prime importance in this new and insane age: he joined the struggle against organized crime. (Should he have completely turned his back on what the new age could offer? That meant staying on and fossilizing in a job that, perhaps, would never be of use to anyone.)

And so, what about this young fellow?
What surprised Kosargin was that he never asked for help. Was he still offended because of the incident a few years ago? Or was he planning to run off somewhere and hide? That didn
’
t seem likely either.

He didn
’
t refuse help for very long, however. He called within a few days.

Kosargin
’
s staff had, of course, opened an investigation, if only formally and listlessly. Kosargin himself went to that same office again. Now, though, lying on the green table
were
three or four enlarged copies of American hundred-dollar bills taped together—was that a joke of some kind?

His favorable impression from the last meeting with Tolkovyanov was confirmed: there was something simple and countrified in his features; he looked you right in the eye, attentive and frowning slightly, though without fidgeting. All the while his voice remained calm and steady; he did not change his tone or grow flushed. This was not a pose; it was not put on and was entirely effortless. It must be his usual manner. Another attempt on his life could be made at any time, yet he betrayed not a sign of fear.

They discussed the arrest. A pair of plainclothes policemen had come to the square, near the spot where the last meeting had taken place. Had the man really become so careless? Had he never anticipated that this might happen? Tolkovyanov
’
s friend gave a signal, and the man was easily arrested.

But indeed, he was so confused and out of his depth that he had brought no one to back him up. An even greater surprise was that he quickly confessed: he himself had attempted the murder!

What he disclosed was something quite trivial and almost comic. He, too, was a physicist, a product of the age in which he was living. Nothing had turned out for him, and he had already served two prison terms but been given early release both times. He looked absolutely wretched, someone you could push over with a
feather. He had been unsuccessful at everything he had tried and become burdened with debt. His wife cursed him and then brought a proposition from her brother: he could earn ten thousand dollars by killing someone, but the murder weapon had to be a bomb. With no money, and suffering the constant nagging of his wife, he at last took up the offer, getting five thousand in advance. And then the attempt failed. Those who had ordered the murder were furious at getting mixed up with such a chicken-hearted fellow and meanly demanded that because he had failed, he must return not just the five thousand he had taken but double that sum. Then he saw the newspaper ad for the ten-thousand-dollar reward. His head in a fog, he first demanded eleven thousand but then came to his senses and asked for twenty-five. Then he showed them the photo of his brother-in-law.

Kosargin
’
s men rushed off to arrest the brother-in-law, but he had disappeared. He had left some traces, however: he did work for Ellomas, though not in any senior position. There the trail ended, and no one else could be implicated. What they did have was the accused, alive and in their hands; his statements; a photo of the man closest to the person ultimately responsible; the speculations of the intended victim; and the observations of the investigators. Such was the case that was sent to trial.

While these things were taking place, Tolkovyanov had twice come to the Organized Crime Division to meet with Kosargin. Kosargin had a policeman
’
s hunch that he had hit upon a vein of ore here, one that might well lead him much farther upwards toward the mother lode.

The mother lode?
It was here that Kosargin ran into a stone wall: his bosses would not allow him to go searching for any mother lode.

He and Tolkovyanov discussed the case and then went on to speak about other things. Now that he had lost his own certain and clear path through life, Kosargin thought that coming to understand this young man who was obviously on the rise might help him regain his own sense of direction. Even now he wondered if he might not be letting some opportunity slip past him.

“
Why don
’
t we have a drink?
”
he suddenly suggested to the young man, even while reaching into the cabinet in the wall. Tolkovyanov nodded his agreement.

They began with the topic of honest business dealings. There were hidden forces with serious sums of foreign currency at work in their city, and they had become intertwined with ambitious, unscrupulous profiteers and outright criminals. How could they be eliminated? In fact, could they ever be eliminated? Would we ever be able to foster honest enterprise when, it seemed, the state was doing its best to suppress just such a thing?

Then the conversation turned to the state itself.
And then—like pouring a liquid into connected vessels—it moved on to the Organs.
What was their purpose at the moment, and how should they develop in the future? Were they simply self-serving or could they perhaps serve Russia as well?

When deep in conversation, Tolkovyanov had a particular habit: he would rest his elbows on the table and put his ten fingers together, moving them slightly to create various shapes. Was he putting together some sort of framework? Did this help him resolve the problem he was considering? His brows and forehead revealed a certain tension. Then he would shift his intelligent, calm gaze to Kosargin. Clearly, he found this conversation interesting.

All through these past days, he had never shown any sign that he was harried, overburdened, or frightened.

Their conversation imperceptibly changed direction until Kosargin found himself revealing to this person (a person he had dismissed as a young puppy not long before) his deepest concerns, not merely about his job but on much more cerebral issues: What was to be done? Would Russia be robbed blind? Think of the billions that are being sent out of the country! (This must have sounded rather droll, coming from one who was virtually the supreme crusader against organized crime in the oblast.)

Tolkovyanov was well aware of all this, but he stated his opinion calmly: The funds that were flowing out of Russia would flow back in a few years, in the next decades, at the latest; they would come of their own accord, and they would help turn the wheels of our Russian industry.

How could that be? The logged-out forests would not come back. And the treasures that had been dug from the earth would not come back.

“
So you mean that the thieves will keep what they
’
ve stolen?
”
Kosargin objected, with genuine indignation. He had a fierce hatred for these money-grubbers. (Deep inside, though, wasn
’
t he a bit envious of them . . . ?)

“
Suppose they do keep their booty,
”
Tolkovyanov said.
“
The money will still come back and form part of our gross revenue. Of course we can
’
t get rid of all our criminals. But their money will be laundered in the same tub with their foreign investments.
”

No! Kosargin could not believe the outcome could be that neat and happy.

Tolkovyanov, trying to soothe him, continued:
“
And the brainpower that
’
s been draining away will also come back—not the very best of it, perhaps, but still, not everyone we
’
ve lost will be able to find a place out there.
”
It was obvious how painfully he felt the continuing flight of people looking for some warmer spot. And here in Russia, graduate students were now receiving ten-dollar stipends.

And on our streets?
A couple of these well-fed mugs each stop their Mercedes at an intersection and hold up all the traffic while they have a conversation! The traffic cop timidly turns the other way. How is a career policeman supposed to watch that?

After a few glasses, when they had come to a better understanding of one another, Kosargin even ventured to say, casually:
“
Aleksey Ivanych. You
’
re a man with a scientific and technical background . . . What do you think? What are
we
supposed to do in this damned society we
’
re now living in? I mean,
us
. . .
”
He tried to make himself clear without venturing to use
that
word,
those
letters, but had in mind his former colleagues still stuck in the service. But also, what were we to do generally?

Tolkovyanov did not allow himself to smile, and with great tact and discretion tried to present some reasoned and sensible options.

On his way home, Kosargin passed the famous monument to the Warriors of the Revolution. It depicted some steep cliffs from which three heads projected—a worker, a soldier, and a peasant. The whole city, following the quip of some street comedian, called it
“
Zmei-Gorynych
,
”
after the three-headed dragon of Russian folktales. (And truly, there was a certain resemblance.)