Red Ink (6 page)

“Yes, if it’s infested with corruption.”

“And you have evidence of that?”

“No, but I know what might,” I reply pointedly. “And I’d be more than happy to run with it, if they happened to fall into my hands.”

Shevchenko’s eyes flare. He knows what I want. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. We go up to your office. You accidentally leave the documents on your desk and head for the John while I get acquainted with the nearest copying machine.”

“Not a chance.” He sweeps the bag off the table, pushes it through the window to the clerk, and charges out of the evidence room.

“Okay, back to square one. If not you, who?”

“Pardon me?” he challenges, stepping up his pace.

“Come on. Which section handles white-collar scams?”

“Economic Crimes.”

“Thank you. Why not give the documents to them?”

“Because the
Interior Ministry
is investigating irregularities at the CSP. If Vorontsov’s superiors determine his suspicions are valid, they’ll take whatever steps are necessary to—”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Sure I do. Maybe they already have.” He starts up the staircase, lighting a cigarette.

I’m right on his heels, thinking he knows better, knows that whatever Vorontsov uncovered probably goes from the top down, knows the bureaucrats can’t be trusted to investigate themselves. Furthermore, his evasiveness suggests he has an ulterior motive. And I know what it is. “Who’s in charge of Economic Crimes, anyway?” I prompt offhandedly.

He reaches a landing and starts up the next flight. “Fellow named Gudonov.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He transferred from Central about six months ago.”

“Would that be
Investigator
Gudonov?”

Shevchenko nods. “Around here, he’s become known as Incinerator Gudonov.”

“Incinerator?”

“Uh-huh. Black-market money transactions fall in his area. He hauls whatever he confiscates down to Sanitation and burns it. Claims it’s a deterrent. Fucking grandstanding, if you ask me.”

We climb a few more steps. “So, is that Senior Incinerator? Or Chief Incinerator?”

“Senior,” Shevchenko replies apprehensively, sensing where I’m headed.

“And how long has Senior Investigator Gudonov been on the militia?”

“We were in the same class at the IMPC.”

“Where?”

“Interior Ministry Police College.”

“An old rivalry then.”

His shoulders go up.

“Would you say he’s an ambitious fellow?”

“A snake.”

“Professionally frustrated?”

“Extremely.”

“How many openings for chief are there?”

“Not enough.”

“And if you gave Gudonov these documents, you’d be handing him the promotion while you’d be stuck solving a two-bit homicide.”

“I don’t have to put up with this. Get it into your head: The documents came from the Interior Ministry, and I’m returning them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a seminar.”

“A seminar? Keeping up with the latest in thumbscrews and eavesdropping devices, are we?”

“No such luck,” he replies with a disgusted scowl. “Try sitting through a lecture on how law enforcement agencies can better share information, sometime.” He forces a smile and walks purposefully toward a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I exclaim, right on his heels as he pushes through the doors. “Sharing information. Those documents are—”

“That makes two of us—” a voice interrupts sharply. It’s a woman’s voice, angry and amplified, speaking Russian with what sounds like a heavy American accent.

I freeze, realizing I’ve followed Shevchenko into a lecture hall filled with law enforcement personnel, who turn and stare at us.

“—And unless I’m mistaken,” the woman goes on, glowering at me from behind the lectern, “I’m the expert in this area.”

“Just what I need,” I say, as we move down the aisle toward her. “Maybe you can convince this thickhead to cooperate.”

“Oh, no. No, that’s your job. That’s what this seminar’s about,” she replies, coming out from behind the lectern with her microphone. She’s tall, larger than life, with large Mediterranean features; large jumble of coarse black hair; large gestures; indeed, everything about her that counts is large. “And I’ve several workshops planned where you’ll be putting these data-sharing techniques into practice. But for now, I’d appreciate it if you’d both take your—”

“There won’t be anything to share if we wait,” I interrupt. “He took the documents from someone’s apartment, and—”

“They’re evidence,” Shevchenko protests, turning to the stage. “Look, this man isn’t even a—”

“Evidence?!” I explode, cutting him off in the nick of time. “You’re the one who said they weren’t. They’re the victim’s property!”

“I don’t think he’s up to claiming them. Do you?!”

“His daughter is! And I’d be more than happy to—”

“Gentlemen?! Gentlemen, please,” the woman pleads, maintaining a professional demeanor. “Maybe a practical lesson would be valuable at this time. If your colleagues agree, perhaps we can—”

“Colleagues?!” Shevchenko roars as an affirmative murmur rises from the audience. “This clown isn’t a police officer. He’s . . . he’s a journalist!”

“A journalist?” the speaker sneers, realizing she’s been snookered. Her coal black eyes lock onto mine like angry lasers. “What’s with you media people, anyway? Is it an international conspiracy, or do you all share a genetic defect?”

“Actually, it’s an eating disorder. We have this obsessive hunger for truth.”

“Yes, and a nasty habit of publishing it without any regard for the consequences.” She shifts her gaze to the audience and resumes, “Speaking of the media—with all the crime and narcotics coming out of Eastern Europe, effective media relations and control are all the more vital. I’ll be dealing with it in tomorrow’s session. I call it: Debunking the Power of the Press and Other Myths. But it’d be a shame to pass up an opportunity for a hands-on demonstration now.” She looks off to one side of the stage and nods.

Two uniformed militia officers, each about the size of my refrigerator, stand and lumber up the aisle toward me, to applause.

6

N
o way, Niko. Not a chance,” Vera replies when I bring up the subject of Vorontsov’s documents.

We’re in McDonald’s on Pushkin Square, having lunch with Yuri. It’s an extremely large space with vast expanses of glass and brightly colored plastic, a short walk from Militia Headquarters and the Interior Ministry. The concept of queuing at a window to place your order is perfectly suited to Muscovites, who are accustomed to waiting in line for everything. But after a lifetime of eating boiled potatoes and beef, the richness of french fries and cheeseburgers takes some getting used to, especially, I imagine, for residents of the apartment building directly above. Despite the culture gap, a hoard of middle-class locals are gorging themselves on fast food—inexpensive fast food—that most of them can’t afford. For the three of us, the noise level is more than worth the price of admission.

“Come on, Vera,” I protest. “You’re in thirty-eight Petrovka every day. I’ve got to get my hands on those documents. You could at least try.”

Her lips tighten into a defiant line.

“Vera.”

“I get caught this time, it’ll cost me more than a couple of days’ pay and a night in the drunk tank.”

“Something I don’t understand. . . .” Yuri says. He pauses, savoring a spoonful of chocolate ice cream as he puzzles it out. Along with sharing my passion for political reform, he’s as addicted to ice cream as I am to vodka; and his search for the perfect flavor and texture has taken him to every
kafé morozhenoye
in Moscow. “If Vorontsov was killed to cover up a scandal, why take his medals?”

“For openers, to make it look like a robbery so the militia will bark up all the wrong trees. Which is exactly what I think Shevchenko’s doing.”

“Possible. And?”

“Their value. How much do you think a professional would get to take Vorontsov out?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri muses, contemplating the dollop on his spoon. “Five hundred, maybe a thousand rubles.”

“If he’s lucky. But in this case the shooter gets even luckier. He whacks Vorontsov, then spots the medals. Suddenly, he’s looking at two, maybe three hundred thousand. Not a bad bonus.”

“Not a bad theory, either,” Vera concedes. “Anything else?”

“No, just that and the documents,” I reply, with a forlorn expression to make her feel guilty.

“Don’t do that to me, Nikolai. I’m warning you, it’s not going to work.”

“I’m crushed.” I clutch my chest as if shot in the heart, then shift targets. “What about you, Yuri?”

“Me?”

“Yes. Shevchenko’s returning the documents to the IM. You should be able to get your hands on them.”

“Impossible.”

“You never had trouble before.”

“That’s because I could always bribe someone with a copy of
Playboy
or
Dr. Zhivago.
But now, now you can buy them on the Arbat.” Yuri’s brows arch in amazement that such things are for sale minutes from the Kremlin on a thoroughfare that has been closed and turned into a pedestrian mall. Lined with shops and cafés, where artists, musicians, hustlers, and restless teenagers hang out, it extends more than a mile from Arbat Square to the Foreign Ministry. “It’s out of the question.”

“Maybe I’m missing something here, but when you were an outcast, you could; now that you’re an insider, you can’t?”

“Nikolai,” he groans, implying I should know better. “Despite all the restructuring, the IM is still highly compartmentalized; access to documents is as restricted as ever. Besides, I don’t have to tell you, I’m a theoretician, not a salesman. Privatization deals aren’t my area.”

“Nothing like having friends come to your rescue.”

Yuri methodically scoops the last bit of ice cream from his cup, then seems to have a change of heart. “All right. I’ll look into it, but don’t hold your breath. Frankly, the way hard-liners are hanging on, I’d forget the whole thing if I were you.”

“No,” Vera pipes up. “No, I think he should forget the documents—and focus on the medals.”

“The medals? Why?”

“Well, if you can find them, there’s a good chance you’ll eventually find the killer. And he’s going to turn out to be either a thief or a hired assassin.”

“That would settle it one way or the other.”

“And if he is a hired gun, once he’s cornered, maybe he can be convinced to identify who paid him.”

“Maybe. But I’m a writer, Vera, not a militia interrogator. Remember?”

“If I wanted to be sleeping with a cop,” she says, smiling at a thought, “I’d have little trouble finding one.”

“Nobody’s stopping you.”

Vera stiffens, stung by the remark. “That was uncalled for,” she protests with an angry flip of her hair. “I was just kidding.”

I reach across the table for her hand, but she pulls it away. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very good about myself lately.”

She sighs and raises a brow at Yuri, who nods knowingly. I “Do we have to listen to this?”

“Come on, remember how I used to say a dissident is a citizen who has the guts to say what everyone else is thinking. And you used to say—”

“Who has the
stupidity,”
Yuri interrupts, beating me to it. “Yeah, I remember. It was a joke.”

“I know, but sometimes I think you were right.”

“You’re infuriating, you know?” Vera challenges. “The Communists are out, democracy is in, you finally have a free society, and you’re still not satisfied.”

“It’s not how I thought it would be.”

“Give the country a chance, Nikolai. These things take time.”

“No, I meant for me. It’s different.”

“In what way?” Yuri prods gently.

“Every way.”

“Every
way?”

“Writing. Okay? My style is stilted. I have to fight for every angle, every sale. I mean, making the
apparatchiks
squirm used to be fun, but it’s become a chore. I never used to think about making money, and I always seemed to have enough. Now, it’s all I think about, and I’m always broke.”

“Well, speaking of a job,” Vera intones a little too self-righteously, “maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself and get one.”

“You mean on a newspaper?”

“Don’t look so insulted. It’s a perfectly respectable way to earn a living. I bet Sergei would hire you in a minute.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I’d have to revamp my syntax and get a face-lift first. Besides, after being on my own all these years, the mere thought of writing on assignment . . .” I splay my hands and let it tail off to emphasize my distaste for the idea. “Of course, I could do a free-lance piece on the black market in medals. It’d—”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Vera interrupts facetiously.

“Where would you take it?” Yuri prompts.

“
Independent Gazette.
They’d buy it in a minute.”

“So would the wire services,” Vera encourages. “They love all that Moscow subculture stuff.”

“And I suppose you just happen to know where the black-market medal dealers hang out?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Well, since you’ve been so adept at keeping me in coffee, I thought maybe on one of your excursions into the Moscow netherworld you came across . . .”

“No such luck.”

“What about that athlete?” Yuri prompts.

“What athlete?”

“That one you wrote about. Arkady—Arkady something, wasn’t it?”

“Arkady Barkhin?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it. Barkhin. He might have a line on it.”

“He might, but I haven’t seen him in years. Besides, he’s probably dead.”

It wouldn’t be from old age if he were. Arkady Barkhin was a promising decathlete before a knee injury ended his career. He’d be in his mid-thirties now. I met him years ago while writing an article that exposed the government’s practice of discarding athletes who are injured or past their prime. The famous ones find jobs as trainers and coaches, but the rest—selected in childhood by Goskomsport to stock local, national,and Olympic teams—are unskilled, uneducated, and unemployable.

Women marry, gain weight, and have children. Men peddle I their brawn and physical skills to the
mafiya,
working as enforcers and loan collectors in the rackets that have spread like the plague to every Russian city and suburb. Their days are spent in gyms coaxing atrophying muscles to life, nights hanging out in restaurants and cafés from which protection money is extorted. These aren’t proud old-timers, but a thirty-something group of embittered jocks who earn a living as crooks and killers.

When I last saw him, Arkady Barkhin was well on his way to becoming one of them.