Denouncer (21 page)

While one policeman questioned the digging, the other poked his head in the truck. Opening the toolbox, he found dynamite, blasting caps, and electrical cable. He immediately drew his pistol.

“How do you explain the dynamite sticks in the toolbox?” he asked, tapping the barrel of the gun against Viktor’s chest.

Had the Ryazan city police and the local OGPU not hated each other, Viktor could have pulled rank and displayed his OGPU courtesy card entitling him to special treatment. He would have to fashion another escape. “This ain’t the only drainage line we’re layin’. We’re layin’ others and also buildin’ a holdin’ pond for the runoff. That’s where the explosives come in. In this weather and with this rock-hard ground . . . and since we ain’t got no rock drills, we got to do the work with dynamite. If you wanna watch, we’ll be blowin’ the hole later.” He pointed to an open spot through the trees. “Right over there. But it’ll take several hours to get set up. Like I said, you’re welcome to watch.”

Given the chaotic state of Bolshevik files and records, the policemen knew it was fruitless to telephone the office of roadworks to inquire about drainage lines and a holding pond. The best thing to do was simply return to the office and sort through the construction permits. The policeman holstered his pistol and, copying Viktor’s ID card number, said, “We’ll check in with headquarters. If there’s a problem, we’ll be back.”

Watching the police car drive off, Viktor said, “No use hanging around here. Let’s find Razumov. We need a new site. Those guys just ruined this one.”

A furious Razumov stomped around Viktor’s flat. “We can’t blow up the bridge. Too many innocent people might get killed. Besides, he might not take that route. There’s only one other course. We do some minor damage to Lukashenko’s official car, and while it’s being repaired, Comrade Selivanov will fit it with an explosive device.”

“That’s far more complicated than detonating a road bomb,” said Petr. “For a start, you’ll need batteries, the right circuitry, transceivers, connectors, nonelectric igniter tips, a dependable clock, and more.”

“Whatever it takes to rid ourselves of that bastard . . . I’ll get it for you. Just give me a list. Unlike the nitro, this stuff will be current. I promise.”

Razumov made it clear that the black Packard sedan that Lukashenko used was bulletproof. So neither a sniper nor a hand grenade could do the job. They would have to plant the bomb in the car, but not in the trunk or under the hood, which would be the first places that Lukashenko’s bodyguards would check.

“Is there a clock in the dashboard?” asked Petr. “If there is, I can rewire it.”

Razumov asked Viktor to pour him a drink, which he threw back the moment his hand touched the glass. His body trembled from the effect. “I’ve never seen the inside of that vermin’s car, but others in the service have. We’ll arrange to have it serviced.”

“And if it doesn’t have a clock, what then?” asked Petr.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Razumov. He took another shot of vodka. “Leave everything to me. I’ll see that his car ends up in the shop by tomorrow.”

The winter festival would be ending in a few days, and, as Viktor pointed out, Lukashenko often used the occasion to take his mistress to a Swiss spa, his favorite retreat.

Razumov vociferously declared, “I don’t care if it takes from now until the Second Coming—pardon my heresy—to kill that bastard, I’m going to finish him off.” With that statement, he departed.

Why, Petr asked, was Razumov treating the killing as personal?

Viktor explained that Razumov, like a great many others, had once trusted Lukashenko for his denouncing corruption, but that was before he became a sleazy mayor. A niece of Razumov had participated in the Ukrainian independence movement. Betrayed, she fled to her uncle, even though he was a Bolshevik and opposed to Ukrainian separatism. Razumov hid her in his flat for a few weeks, until her presence proved dangerous, particularly since Razumov at the time was training to be an OGPU officer. He wanted to spirit her to the East of the country, where she could work in one of the Siberian cities and establish a new identity. Having cooperated with Lukashenko on his anticorruption campaign, Razumov felt here was a man whom he could trust. So he told Lukashenko about the presence of his niece and his wish to arrange her escape. Luka-shenko assured Razumov that he would help get her out of Ryazan, and asked for her particulars: name, age, height, hair color, and a general description. When Razumov questioned the need for such information, Lukashenko said that it would be safer if Razumov did not accompany her to the train. Lukashenko would personally show up at the station and lead her to safety. Hence his need for the details. The day of the rendezvous, Razumov saw an unusually large number of city policemen guarding the platform—the very policemen whom Lukashenko and Razumov had been exposing for their venality. He told his niece they’d been deceived; they should leave in separate directions and meet again at his flat. But Lukashenko spotted the niece crossing the street and ordered her to halt. She started to run. A shot rang out, and the girl bled to death in the road. Either from fear or shame or deceit, Lukashenko swore the killing was a mistake.

The obvious question, and the one that Petr immediately asked, was what did Lukashenko have to gain?

Hardly able to contain his own hatred for the man, Viktor replied, “That mendacious maggot played both ends against the middle. He ingratiated himself with the local constabulary, who, he heard, were a step away from arresting him, and he earned the gratitude of the OGPU for fingering a Ukrainian nationalist. The OGPU, to their later regret, helped bring him to power. Now they want to depose him, having recognized their error.”

“And we’ve agreed to help,” said Petr walking to the window. On the street, a horse with a yoked collar was straining to pull a canvas-covered wagon. The horse’s steamy exhalations, which looked like silver shafts, came in spurts. Then the horse stopped in the middle of the street. The driver climbed down from his seat and swore at the animal, but to no avail. Reaching into the wagon, he removed a whip and fiercely applied it to the horse’s rump. The horse buckled and fell to its knees. Petr could see stripes of blood running down its legs. The driver immediately unharnessed the horse, lest it topple the wagon. Without turning to face Viktor, a distraught Petr asked, “I know what I get, a clean record, but what do you get?”

Viktor came to the window and looked at the scene below. What he saw was a horse quiver and roll to one side, apparently dead. He silently watched for a minute, as the driver kicked the animal in the back. When the horse failed to respond, the driver strapped the harness around his shoulders and waist and started to pull the wagon himself, leaving the horse behind. “What do I get, you ask? I’ll tell you. I rid this oblast of an odious creature, I ingratiate myself with the OGPU, and best of all I savor the sweet taste of revenge.”

In the ensuing silence, Petr was thinking, as one often did in Stalin’s Russia, of other motives and possible machinations. Revenge for what? He glanced around the room, looking for a family photograph. Not a one, not even of parents or brother or sister. The flat was devoid of any evidence that the Harkov family had ever lived, except of course for Viktor’s presence. How very strange. Or was the explanation that Viktor’s head, teeming with plots, conspiracies, intrigues, and stratagems, had shriveled his heart? Petr wondered, remembering Alexander’s photograph of the Harkov family and his beautiful sister.

“Your brother,” ventured Petr, “once showed me a snapshot of your parents seated in a garden, with their three children around them. What was your father’s occupation?”

“He owned a general store, which the Soviets confiscated.”

Petr felt confused. If Viktor was telling the truth, why would Alexander have joined the OGPU, and why would Viktor lend himself to their black deeds? A second later, Viktor uttered the reason. “I despised my alcoholic father for mistreating my mother and sister.”

“What happened to them?”

“We’d better think about dinner.”

Petr went straight to the stove. “If you can stand soup again, I have a nice potato recipe.”

“It’s just as well, because we’re out of beets and cabbage. But there’s a lamb shank, which you’re welcome to use. I need to shop.”

Petr wrapped a dish towel around his middle and started slicing potatoes. “Tell me,” he said offhandedly, “about your mother and sister.”

“What’s there to tell? My mother died of typhus and my sister—she was older than me—she died for a revolutionary cause.”

“Your mama’s name?”

“Celia, and my sister’s was Relitsa.”

Now was the moment, Petr decided, to advance his hunch. “Did Comrade Razumov know your family?”

Viktor’s discomfort could be felt across the room. “He lived in the same apartment building and hung around with Alexander.”

“How old is Razumov?”

“Early forties, I would guess.”

“About the same age as your sister. Right?”

Grabbing Petr from behind by the shoulders, Viktor spun him around so they stood face-to-face. “Out with it! What are you trying to worm from me?”

Uncertain whether to be candid or not, Petr hesitated. It was just long enough for Viktor to tell him what he wanted to know.

“Razumov was in love with my sister. There, now you have it.”

But Petr knew he didn’t have it all. He felt certain that Razumov’s niece whom he hid from the police was actually Relitsa Harkova. Presumably he loved her. Was his ardor returned? And where did Lukashenko come in? Did he also have a yen for the lovely Relitsa? It wouldn’t be the first time a thwarted lover killed the object of his affections. Petr’s head was spinning with scenarios and scenes right out of a Russian romance novel. But was he right or simply nesting ideas, one inside the other, like a matryoshka doll?

✷

A morning telephone call from Razumov alerted Viktor and Petr that Lukashenko’s official car, with its tinted windows, was now in the repair shop, and that the two mechanics, by prior arrangement, would be absent from two to three. The car had a clock, and they had an hour to rig it.

The garage, situated in the basement of a government building and reached from the street by a ramp, was a dark and grimy affair. Petr had stored the dynamite and all his attachments in a canvas bag that he cradled ever so carefully. A sleepy porter nodded at the two men and then returned his gaze to a soiled newspaper. The door to the work area stood slightly ajar, and the interior lighting was poor. In under ten minutes, Petr disengaged the clock from the dashboard and wired it to two sticks of dynamite that he deftly lodged behind the glove compartment, so that when the explosion took place, it would occur directly in front of the passenger, Vladimir Lukashenko. By the time the porter looked up from his paper, all he could see were the backs of two men making their way up the ramp to the street.

The next step was to decide where to position themselves along the road to the Kremlin. Petr had serious reservations about taking the life of the innocent driver, but Viktor said that the “incidental damage” couldn’t be helped. “Cold-blooded” was the word that came to Petr’s mind, but he could not disguise the fact that he was not only party to the crime but also the bomb designer. He tried not to think about his participation, but unbidden reflections came to him, like concentric circles that radiated out from a fixed center called “assassination.” What if Lukashenko’s car was flanked by other automobiles or mobbed by admirers? Would they too be incidental damage? And could Razumov assure him that the only people in the Packard would be the driver and Lukashenko? The mayor was fond of appearing in public with average citizens and their families. Supposing a child was in the backseat? And not least was the fear that whoever replaced Lukashenko would be worse. Hadn’t the killing of Tsar Alexander II derailed reforms and enthroned his hateful son?

Returning to the area of woods where the police first encountered Viktor and Petr was out of the question. A new hiding place had to be found. But where? You could hardly set off a remote control device in a crowd. In an open space, the conspirators would be seen. After their last encounter with Lukashenko’s men, the woods undoubtedly would be patrolled. Razumov finally decided to have an OGPU car officially parked along the highway, ostensibly for the mayor’s protection, with Petr in the back operating his equipment. When Lukashenko’s Packard passed, Petr would signal the clock, which in turn would ignite the dynamite sticks. At Viktor’s suggestion, Petr had briefly considered setting the clock to explode at a certain time, but decided against that plan because, as Razumov pointed out, Lukashenko’s movements were notoriously erratic.

The night before the winter festival, Razumov invited the two men to dine with him at a restaurant frequented by OGPU agents. For all the candles and glitter and lights, it was a depressing place where secret policemen brought their mistresses and girlfriends. Viktor disliked coming here because the clientele drank too much and spoke too loudly, but Razumov, for some reason, had a soft spot for this cookhouse. Petr’s feelings were a mystery. Perhaps his mind was elsewhere: on the next day’s activities.

During the course of the meal, Razumov, who had a high threshold for alcohol, consumed nearly half a bottle of vodka. To look at him, you wouldn’t have known that his eyes were losing their focus and his mind its clarity. Even when drunk, he kept his physical balance. His head never lolled; his feet never shuffled; his hands never shook. The only sign of drunkenness was his maudlin remembrances: of family, friends, a pet dog, a forgiving schoolteacher, and Relitsa Harkova, a subject Viktor would have preferred to avoid.

“God, she was lovely,” Razumov intoned, to the discomfort of her brother. “Only a poet could do her justice, and I’m no poet. Far from it, just a cop with rough hands.”

“I think we ought to leave,” said Viktor.

“Hell, the night is young and tomorrow . . . tomorrow dawns a new day. For all of us. Thanks to our friend here, Tovarish Selivanov.” Forgetting Relitsa for the moment, Razumov shared his vision for the country. “Free of want and privilege. A place of equality, fairness, and justice. Are we there yet? Not by a long shot.” He quickly looked around to see if any of his colleagues might have heard him. But his fellow agents were seated at a safe distance. “The walls have ears,” he said. “You can never be too cautious.” He suppressed a burp. “I can just see that oily prick being thrown through the roof of his car and landing in pieces, a leg here, an arm there. His face no longer recognizable. He’s a murderer. You do know that, don’t you, Petr Selivanov? He’s a murderer. Ask Viktor here. Or maybe he’s already told you. He shot and killed the beautiful, lovely, and wonderful Relitsa Harkova. In the back, when she tried to run from that filthy rapist.”