Red Ink (3 page)

“No motive—no suspect,” he announces, reciting the axiom glumly, as he begins sorting the documents.

“You’ve eliminated thieves, mistresses, neighbors, which leaves, what? Professionals. It would be fair to allege it was the
mafiya.
Some kind of a hit. No?”

“No.”

“Come on. He was killed with a pistol.”

“Would you have preferred a shotgun?”

“A hand ax. I understand it’s the most commonly used weapon in homicides.”

“Because firearms are illegal and hard to get. There’s always an ax handy.”

“Unless you’re a professional. Then it’s—”

The phone rings, interrupting me.

“Shevchenko,” he answers wearily. His shoulders sag as he listens. “Yes, I’m still here. . . . I’m sorry, I meant to. I didn’t get a chance. . . . Yes, I know it’s late. Tell them I’ll see them in the morning. . . . Katya, I’m doing my best. It’s hard to—Katya? Katya?” He sighs and slowly lowers the phone.

“Old lady’s pissed off at you, huh?”

He glares at me. “Stick to business, Katkov.”

“Fine. I was about to say, it’s rather obvious we’re looking at a premeditated murder here.”

“I didn’t say that and don’t write that I did. I said cold-blooded murder. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Why?”

“Because there are pieces that still don’t fit.”

“Removing the body from the car . . .”

Shevchenko nods smugly before adding, “And the sack of sundries on the seat.”

“What makes that a problem?”

“Time. He leaves the office and goes shopping at one of those trendy emporiums that sell Western goods. The end of the working day. Their busiest time. He’d have to take a number and queue for at least an hour, maybe two. Then time to drive all the way to Khimki Khovrino, time to eat, drink, and be merry, and time to drive home.
All
in time to be killed sometime before eight forty-eight. I’m sure dispatcher"—he pauses
and retrieves a report from his desk—"Vera Fedorenko recorded the time of the call accurately.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say offhandedly, thinking the son-of-a-bitch never misses an opening. “Far as the body being removed from the car is concerned, maybe Vorontsov dragged himself out.”

“With half his cranium missing?”

“A reflexive action. Like a chicken without a head. Whatever, I still think somebody shut him up.”

“No comment.” He tosses a document aside, and begins perusing another. “Not until I know exactly what he was up to at the Interior Ministry.”

“Well, since you work for the Interior Ministry, I’m sure you have your ways of finding out.”

“And I’ve no doubt you have yours, Katkov. You’ll let me know what you turn up.”

“I’ll let you know who buys my story. You can read what I turn up.”

He bristles, then checks his anger in reaction to something in the documents. “I don’t think we’re going to need sources to find out what he’s involved in.”

“You found it?”

“Privatization,” he says with the disdain usually reserved for the word
capitalism.
“These reports were prepared by the Committee for State Property.”

“The committee
empowered to sell
State property. The committee overrun by corrupt bureaucrats ripping off the industries they’ve been managing.”

“Fucking hypocrites,” Shevchenko exclaims, nostrils twitching at the stench of scandal. “They buy businesses with money stolen from the Party and make huge profits reselling them to Western corporations.”

“For
dollars
—dollars that never enter the economy, as I understand it.”

“It’s called capital flight, Katkov. There are dozens of deals here. From high-tech to agriculture, and everything in between.”

“So, which one was poor Comrade Vorontsov trying to rip off?”

Shevchenko shrugs and smiles enigmatically. “Maybe all of them. Maybe none.”

“None?”

“None.
I don’t get paid to jump to conclusions like you, Katkov. I get paid to assemble and evaluate facts.” He kicks back in his chair with a prescient air and ticks the points off on his fingers. “A man of apparent stature and integrity. Rampant political corruption. Documents that cover a broad range of State industries. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Your point?”

“It’s possible Vorontsov had the documents because he was reviewing them.”

“A watchdog?”

Shevchenko nods. “He’s probably as dirty as they come; but it’s also possible he died because he was about to blow the whistle on someone.”

“But someone blew it on him first.”

“Someone with a lot to lose.” He looks off for a moment, then grins at a thought. “You know what’s
really
intriguing about this?”

“Impress me.”

“The motive. I mean, why do Russians kill each other, Katkov? Love, hate, politics—”

“—a bottle of vodka.”

“Precisely. That’s been about it up until now. Now, we have greed. Money. That’s a brand-new one.”

3

T
he Zhdanov-Krasny metro line zigzags beneath the city from the suburbs in the northwest, to the power corridors of central Moscow, and on to the industrial districts in the southeast. Lyublino, a working-class enclave where breathing is more hazardous than smoking, is a long way from the House on the Embankment. Indeed, this drab, polluted area I call home is at the end of the line in more ways than one, which means I can sleep on the train without missing my stop.

But I’m not sleeping tonight.

Despite the hour, my mind is racing to recall all I’ve learned about the privileged life and violent death of Vladimir Illiych Vorontsov. I can’t write fast enough. Item by item I scribble it down in my notebook, along with the endless questions that come to mind:

Was Vorontsov a watchdog, or not? If so, which State assets did he suspect were being illegally sold?

Who were the buyers? The
apparatchiks
who managed those assets? Officials in the Interior Ministry? Foreign consortiums? All of the above? Ministry officials in collusion with outsiders?

Whom did Vorontsov report to? Who were his subordinates? Was he clean or dirty?

It will take weeks, maybe months, to answer them all. The
longer the better, as far as I’m concerned. This is a major scandal. At the least, I’m looking at a lead story and a series of follow-ups.

The train bends through a curve with a chilling screech and rumbles into the station. I slip out the door before it fully opens and charge up the escalator into early morning darkness. The frigid air is thick with noxious fumes billowing from the industrial stacks across the river in Brateyevo. I light a cigarette, thinking there’s probably more sulfur in my lungs than on the matches, and head south beneath crackling power lines that stretch to the horizon.

Five years ago, after my last imprisonment for subversive writings, I moved from Perm 35 in the Urals to an apartment in Lyublino to write about the deadly living conditions. To my horror, the air smelled like sulfazine—a vile, fever-producing drug used by prison quacks to cure alcoholism—and I couldn’t wait to finish my work and leave; but principle and poverty have conspired to keep me here. The baroque mansion where I live stands in gratifying defiance of the State’s monolithic housing units, and the caretaker, whose family owned the house before the State divided it into dozens of cramped apartments, always allows me a few months’ grace on the rent.

The harsh industrial odor gives way to the scent of perfume as I enter the vestibule. Vera’s delicate fragrance draws me up the twisting staircase, gradually blending with the strong smell of coffee. “Hi,” I say brightly, as I come through the door. “Sorry to be so late, but—”

That’s strange. The sofa, where I expect to find Vera curled up with a book, is empty. The blanket she keeps tucked around her legs, tossed aside. My dog-eared copy of
I
Claudius
is on the end table next to a butt-filled ashtray and a half cup of black coffee.

“Vera? Vera, you here?” I slide back the curtain that separates the sleeping alcove from the main living area. No Vera. The bedding hasn’t been disturbed. I’ve just taken off my parka when I notice the bathroom door is closed. The tub. She probably took a bath and fell asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time. I open the door slowly to avoid startling her, but the tub is also empty. Signs of Vera everywhere, but still no Vera.

I call her apartment. No answer. Maybe she had to go back to work. Militia Headquarters has my number. They’ve called
her here before when they were shorthanded. Why didn’t she beep me or leave a note? I call the dispatcher’s office. But before I can explain, the woman who answers informs me Vera finished her shift and lectures me on the rule against personal calls. I hang up and take stock of the apartment.

Nothing appears to be missing. Even my library of subversive literature, as it was called not long ago, seems untouched. Controversial works smuggled in from the West—Sakharov, Solzhenitsyn, Hemingway, Nabokov, Shakespeare, Orwell, Sartre, Voltaire, Churchill, Locke, Lincoln, and countless others I risked my freedom to acquire, along with binders bursting with articles pirated from wire services—are all as I left them.

Did I take them out of hiding too soon? Did Vera’s hunger for knowledge have consequences she never anticipated? A familiar hollowness is growing in my stomach. Perhaps, unlike winter, our newly won freedom is neither inevitable nor lasting.

The pot of coffee on the stove smells earthy and tart. I turn on the burner and pace anxiously as it heats, fighting my craving for alcohol, fighting to keep my imagination from getting the best of me. Vera probably got tired of waiting and went home; she’s probably still on the Metro. I haven’t had coffee in months, and the first swallow goes down like vodka after a week on the wagon. I’m savoring the second when someone raps on the door.

Vera? Why wouldn’t she use her key?

Another salvo of knocks rattles the latch. “Mr. Katkov? Mr. Katkov, it’s Mrs. Parfenov,” an elderly voice calls out.

I open the door to find the old
babushka
who cares for the building, clutching at her bathrobe in the unheated corridor. “It’s three in the morning, Mrs. Parfenov. I know I’m a little behind in my rent, but—”

“They took her away, Nikasha.” She has the shaken look of those who have seen the Secret Police come in the night, though these things don’t happen anymore.

“Took her away? Who?”

“Men.
Who else?”

“Men? What did they look like? In uniforms?”

She shakes her head no, and maneuvers past me into the apartment. Her cloudy eyes dart about, taking stock of the place.

“Did you hear anything?”

“Yes,” she says angrily. “They made an awful racket on the stairs. Woke me up.”

“I mean, what they said.”

“No. I watched from behind the curtains. They put her in a car.” She cocks her head curiously and sniffs at the air. “What’s that?”

“Coffee.”

“Ah,” she whines with suspicion. “I thought I recognized it. You have a source?”

“Vera does.”

“Maybe that’s why they arrested her.”

“For buying coffee on the black market?”

“They’re cracking down, Nikasha.” She punctuates it with a chop of her bony hand, turns toward the door, then pauses and turns back. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. . . .” Her face twists with the confusion of age. “Aggghh, it escapes me.”

“Something about Vera?”

“No. No, I’m quite sure it wasn’t.”

“The rent?”

“No. I know you’re good for it. Don’t worry, it’ll come to me.” She smiles weakly and shuffles out the door, her breath trailing behind her.

Did Shevchenko say
if
the KGB was still in business?! My gut is a knot of pain now. I lock the door and pull the curtains. I know better, but I place calls to the Militia and the KGB anyway. Anonymous calls. Neither has a record of Vera’s arrest. That doesn’t mean they don’t have her. It’s always been difficult to get information on citizens who’ve been arrested. I know the frustration all too well. I wrestle with it for a while, then do what I always do when I can’t do anything else. I roll a sheet of paper into the typewriter and get to work.

V. I. Vorontsov, a longtime servant of the Motherland who spent years in constructive and frank discussions of the prospects for the development of trading and economic exchanges with the Western powers, was shot to death in his car last evening. This heinous act of hooliganism, this cold-blooded murder of a high-ranking Interior Ministry official raises many questions about the Committee for State Property.
Thought to be rife with the most criminal type of corruption, the CSP may be contributing mightily to the rapid flight of capital that is stifling economic growth. Furthermore . . .

As Vera anticipated, the coffee keeps me sharp, and the pages continue to roll out of the typewriter, despite the distraction. I’ve lived with these fears and uncertainties all my life. If they interfered with writing, I’d have never published a word. I’m leaning back in my chair, searching for an appropriate phrase, when a ray of light that has found its way through the smog announces it’s morning.

I try Vera again with the same result. The next call is to a friend at the Interior Ministry. Yuri Ternyak is a respected economist who studied at the Institute of National Economic and Scientific-Technical Progress under a defiant genius named Shatalin who taught free-market theory. His disciples labored in cautious obscurity until the Communists fell and the new government engaged them to draft market-oriented reforms. Schooled in contemporary monetary policies and management techniques, many also find themselves conducting liaison with Western bankers, businessmen, and entrepreneurs doing business in Russia; though Yuri, a shy fellow who prefers academic solitude to corporate wheeling and dealing, has concentrated on formulating policy rather than implementing it. Our friendship began twenty-five years ago at Moscow State University, where he ran an underground literature exchange that has kept my library well stocked. More importantly, he’s been a reliable source of information. In the past, we met in parks or on public conveyances to avoid KGB surveillance. Now, we talk more openly—but not today; not after what happened to Vera.

“You know the name Vorontsov?”

“Vaguely. I’ve heard it mentioned,” Yuri replies over the crackling phone line.

“Heard anything lately?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Get me what you can on him, and meet me at GUM.”

“I can’t. My schedule’s jammed. I’m crazed.”

“Come on, Yuri. It’s important.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m about to go into a meeting, and then I have to—”

“Yuri.
Yuri, it’s really important. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

He lets out a long breath and sighs. “All right. GUM. About noon?”

I’m not surprised that Yuri is pressed for time; he’s been working round the clock as of late. But the fact that the Ministry isn’t buzzing with news of the murder piques my curiosity. I ask him to have his secretary transfer my call to Vorontsov’s office. The woman who answers says he called in sick. I’m not sure what to make of that. A cover story was standard procedure under the old regime. Either something’s wrong, or Shevchenko is keeping the lid screwed on even tighter than he promised.

I jot down a few thoughts, then head for the Metro station. An hour later, I’m fighting my way through the crowds in GUM, the massive department store opposite the Kremlin. Sound bounces off the marble floors and vaulted glass roof like ricocheting billiards. The noise level is almost deafening. Yuri and I have had many meetings here without fear of being overheard. It’s almost twelve-thirty by the time he joins me on one of the pedestrian bridges that arch between the shopping arcades.

“Sorry. The phone rang just as I was leaving,” he explains; then, puzzled by my clandestine behavior, he lowers his voice and prompts, “So, what’s going on?”

“They took Vera from my apartment last night.”

Yuri’s face pales. There’s no need to ask who. His trimmed mustache, sharp cheekbones, and close-set eyes usually give him the look of a mischievous rodent; but he’s deadly serious now. He’s about to reply when he stiffens with fear at something he sees behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to see a compact man charging in our direction. Trench coat, fedora, face of stone. Hallmarks of the KGB. They are never alone, preferring to hunt in packs of three. I’m looking about frantically for the others. Yuri is poised to run, but they’ve trapped us on the bridge. I’m beginning to think it’s a long way down when the man hurries past us without so much as a glance and brightens at the sight of a woman who runs into his arms, giggling like a schoolgirl.

Yuri sighs, relieved. I could drain a half liter of vodka without coming up for air. We hear of the KGB’s demise. Even see signs of it. But decades of intimidation will take decades to forget. We take a moment to settle down, then walk to the opposite end of the bridge in silence.

Finally, Yuri lights a cigarette and briefs me on Vorontsov: sixty years old; born in Zhukovka, an elite suburb of Moscow; studied economics at the Plekhanov Institute, attended MGIMO, the prestigious Institute for International Relations; a member of
nomenklatura,
the privileged Party hierarchy; served in embassies in London, Berlin, Tokyo, and Washington, D.C.; currently in charge of oversight for the Committee for State Property.

“Oversight? I thought the CSP was autonomous?”

“They were—until the corruption got out of hand and the Interior Ministry got into the act.”

“Vorontsov’s a watchdog?”

Yuri nods again. “One way of putting it.”

“Clean or dirty?”

“I’ve no idea. Why?”

Yuri is clearly shaken when I brief him on the murder. “You realize what you have here?”

I nod solemnly.

“It threatens the development of a free economy. As it is, the G-Seven countries are hedging their bets, and private investment is lagging; but this—this—internal corruption—not a renegade Congress, not betraying Yeltsin or taking over the White House—is what will bring the new government down. Declaring emergency rule and dissolving parliament have bought him time but Yeltsin still has to deliver. If he doesn’t, we can kiss it all good-bye, and hard currency along with it. No dollars, no francs, no pounds, no marks, nothing.” He pauses, stunned by his own assessment, then his eyes capture mine with concern. “I’d handle this very carefully if I were you.”

I nod again, trying not to commit my heart to it. We reach the end of the bridge, and begin walking along the upper shopping level.

“Where are you taking it?” he asks. “The
News?”

Moscow News
was the breakthrough newspaper of Glasnost. The first to exercise freedom of the press, to support political reform, to be published internationally—in England, France, the United States; and in Israel in Russian—but it has since fallen into weak, cautious hands.

“Do you still subscribe?” I challenge, already knowing the answer.