Red Ink (8 page)

He cackles again; but when I reveal my intention to write a story about black-market medal dealers, the levity ceases, and his eyes narrow with concern. “Still taking risks, aren’t you?”

I nod.

“You’ll need an inside source.”

“Preferably.”

“Done,” he says smartly, scooping up the phone. “It’s not one of my operations, but I know someone who can take you in.”

After the night I’ve had, I’m delighted just to be alive, let alone a step closer to finding out whether Vorontsov’s death was the result of scandal or theft. It’s a short-lived high, tempered by the fact that, either way, the person who took those medals is a cold-blooded killer.

9

M
oscow always looks like a ghost town in the early morning hours—eerie, silent, unpopulated—as if hit by one of those structure-friendly bombs Kremlin saber-rattlers used to justify decades of massive defense expenditures and painful food shortages.

It looks even gloomier through the tinted windows of Barkhin’s Mercedes as we race west on Komsomolsky Prospekt. A Lada sedan stocked with his fruit tarts and the Volvo of leather-jacketed thugs follow. The fast-moving caravan recalls the days when traffic would be held so the Premier and his entourage of Zils could traverse the entire city without stopping.

But we’re not going to Red Square.

No. After making the arrangements, Barkhin insisted on dropping me off, and we’re on our way to the Lenin Hills and a meeting with his contact in the black market. He pops open an attaché and removes a computerized list of companies. “Look,” he says proudly. “My own little mutual fund. You know, you should write another story—‘Ten Years Later.’ I mean, you were right on target.”

I force a smile, loath to publicize my role in birthing a predator, no matter how innocently. I’m not solely responsible. I may have awakened Barkhin’s ambition, but Communism created
his attitude, and democracy the opportunity to unleash them; and unleash them he did—upon his fellow citizens, which is the part that bothers me.

“Blow your own horn a little, Katkov,” he urges, sensing my ambivalence. “You can do one on Arturo too.” He gestures to his chauffeur, an athletic-looking Cuban who doubles as a bodyguard. “He came here ten years ago to coach baseball and stayed.”

“It sure as hell wasn’t for the climate.”

“Try the economy.”

“The what?”

“The economy. It’s booming compared to Cuba’s.”

“If you prefer hunger to starvation.”

“His government offered him a bicycle to go back. I offered him a job. You blame him?”

“They tried to bribe him with a bike?”

“Uh-huh. Cars are useless there. The country is literally out of gas.”

“So the elite pedal, and the peasants walk.”

He nods glumly. “Thanks to Castro. They could all be driving one of these, if he wasn’t such a thickhead. See, we don’t have a quick fix, but they do. Always have. It’s a long shot, but last year when I was there, I made some contacts who think he’s seriously considering taking the plunge.”

“Into what?”

“Tourism.”

The caravan is on Vorob’yovskoye Shosse now, climbing into the heavily wooded terrain that surrounds Moscow State University. The area has a breathtaking view of the city as well as the distinction of being selected by black-market medal dealers as the site of this week’s get-together. According to Barkhin, they set up shop at dawn just prior to the militia shift-change, when the officers are tired and anxious to get home. The Mercedes turns into a narrow service road and stops opposite a forest of evergreens.

Barkhin lowers the window and winces at the blast of frigid air that rushes into the car.

A moment later, a short man in a pin-striped coat and tweed cap cocked forward on his head, giving him the look of a Bolshevik elf, emerges from the trees.

“That’s him. His name’s Rafik. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Arkady. Thanks a lot.”

“Thank you, Nikasha.” He holds my eyes with his, then squeezes my hand to communicate his sincerity. I slide out of the Mercedes and close the door. “Katkov?” Barkhin leans to the window and tosses me a butane lighter. “Keep in touch.”

The caravan glides off into the dense mist that drifts between the hills. When I turn around, Rank is gone. I hurry toward the evergreens. Halfway there, the silence is broken by an unnerving chirping sound. It’s my beeper. Vera must be wondering if I’m dead or alive. I can’t say I blame her. I’ve spent half the night doing the same.

I’m nearing the evergreens when Rafik reappears amid the craggy trunks. There’s something mysterious and instantly appealing about him—a serene confidence that gains my trust. The scent of damp pine needles fills my head, as he leads the way to a clearing where dozens of vehicles are parked. Bikes, motorcycles, cars, vans, pickup trucks.

The dealers are surprisingly young, most in their late teens and twenties. Their merchandise sparkles in the early light, displayed on blankets that are spread across tailgates and hoods, on rectangular panels that stack neatly in attaché cases, and on the linings of coats that they open as if revealing their manhood. It’s like a gypsy bazaar: facile minds, quick hands, wary eyes, the exclamations of shock and disbelief when a price is quoted; then rapid-fire bargaining, the rustle of currency, and jingle of metal as deals are struck and money and medals change hands. Buyers waste no time in leaving once the transaction is completed. Dealers waste none shifting their attention to the next customer. Rank leads the way to a small group gathered at the tailgate of a truck and introduces me.

“You want to write about us?” a young dealer with shoulder-length hair asks warily. “Why?”

“To earn a living.”

“Fair enough. What’s in it for us?”

“Police harassment!” someone shouts. “Yeah, they’ll be all over us!” another exclaims, causing several to back away.

“Hold it! Hold it,” I object as Rafik corrals them. “You mean the militia doesn’t know about your operation?”

“You kidding?” Long-hair snorts. “We make sure we keep one step ahead of them.”

“A little
vzyatka
goes a long way,” a compact fellow says smugly, using slang for graft.

“Then my story will have customers, not cops, beating a path to your door.”

“He’s right,” someone mutters grudgingly. “Yeah, yeah, he is,” another enthuses. An impromptu conclave, with much whispering and sagacious nodding of heads, follows. “Okay,” the long-haired spokesman announces when they adjourn. “But no names. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Where do you get your merchandise?”

“From people who need cash.”

“Give me an example?”

“Sure,” one of the teenagers with an Iron Maiden T-shirt and squeaky voice pipes up. “My uncle had all kinds of medals from the war. When he died, my family sold them, took the cash, and went on a shopping spree. We got a new car, a TV, VCR. My sister got braces, and I got these.” He gestures proudly to his high-topped basketball shoes with built-in air pumps. “I also got into the business.”

“But that can’t be your only source of supply?”

“What do you mean by that?” Long-hair asks, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Well, from what I hear, some medals are worth a lot of money. They could be stolen like jewelry, couldn’t they?”

“Stolen?!” he snaps, offended. The dealers move forward threateningly. “Are you accusing us of fencing stolen goods?”

“No. No, of course not. It was a poor choice of words,” I explain, my mind racing for a way to defuse the situation. “For the sake of argument, why don’t we say medals that were—lost—then found by an enterprising individual—and sold to you?”

Uncertain looks dart between them. Several nod grudgingly. “It’s possible,” Long-hair concedes.

“Would there be a way to identify them?”

“You mean to determine if a medal or group of medals are the same ones that were lost?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It depends.” He turns to one of the displays, selects several medals, and explains, “You can see right here: Some are numbered, some have initials on the back, some even have names, others are blank. Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” I reply matter-of-factly. Their reaction to my comment about stolen medals makes talk of murder and government scandal unwise. “Who are your buyers, by the way?” I ask, purposely changing the subject.

“All kinds of people. Collectors, metal brokers, pensioners.”

“A lot of them are into
blat,”
another pipes up. “You know, special privileges, beating the long lines at markets, getting into shops closed to the average citizen.”

“They come in handy on a crowded train or bus too,” a third chimes in. “Not to mention scoring tickets to rock concerts and soccer finals.”

“Sounds good. I wish I could afford some.”

The group breaks into easy laughter. The tension evaporates. As a joke, the squeaky-voiced one gives me a
znachki,
the cheap commemorative lapel pins sold to tourists at kiosks. Some have a picture of St. George slaying the Dragon. Others, the image of the Kremlin. This one has a small photo centered in a five-pointed red star—a photo of Lenin as an infant which evokes more laughter. The mood gradually turns businesslike as several of the dealers notice customers hovering about. It’s a perfect time to disengage.

Rafik and I are moving off when he cups a hand over his mouth as if revealing a State secret and whispers, “Nationalism.”

“What about it?”

“It’s on the rise. What do you think this madness for medals is all about? When things get bad, people get nostalgic. They want to relive past victories: Bolshevism, World War Two, Stalin, Sputnik. The Communists will make a comeback. Mark my words.”

“You left out the gulag.”

“With good reason.”

“Perm thirty-five,” I announce, sensing where he’s headed.

“Chistopol,” he fires back. “Three years for—”

“—crimes against the State,” we say in unison, breaking into laughter at the absurdity of the catch-all charge; but our levity is short-lived. Rafik’s eyes glaze. So do mine, as visions of the gulag come back with chilling clarity: the rough concrete cells—two steps wide, three steps long—less than twenty square meters for two men; a dim light bulb, an open toilet, wooden planks for beds. No windows. Not even bars. Just a
solid iron door. I can still hear its chilling clang—and still shudder at the screech of the
kormushka,
the slot through which coarse black bread, boiled potatoes, cabbage, or a thin gruel masquerading as kasha were thrown as if to animals. The monotonous, mindless work. Sweltering heat. Bitter cold. Disease. No contact with the outside world. No visitors. No daylight. No mail.

“Never again,” Rafik says, pulling me out of it.

I smile wanly. “While we’re on the subject . . .”

“The gulag?”

“No. Crimes against the State. If some medals
were
stolen, what are the chances of establishing a chain of custody?”

“You mean, find the dealer who bought them and work back to the thief?”

“Uh-huh.”

Rafik’s head cocks suspiciously. “There’s more on your agenda than food and rent, isn’t there, Katkov?”

I nod.

“Good luck.”

“Look, I’m not out to make trouble. Frankly, this story began with a . . . a certain incident, and I’m trying to sort out the motive.”

“Incident?” he flares. “I’m not into riddles. Speak plainly or forget it.”

“Murder. Plain enough?”

“Someone lost more than their medals.”

“Yes. I want to find out if it really was a robbery, or a shrewd way to cover another reason for killing him.”

“You have the poor bastard’s name?”

“Vorontsov. Vladimir Illiych.”

Rafik’s brows rise and fall. He’s mulling it over when the darkness is split by the sweeping headlights and acid blue flashers of police vans. This sets off a frantic buttoning of coats, packing of cases, and rolling of blankets and sends dealers and buyers scattering to their vehicles. Amid roaring engines and screeching tires, those of us on foot literally head for the hills and cover of dense foliage.

“You have a car?” I call out on the run. There’s no reply. I glance over my shoulder. Rafik’s gone. Vanished as mysteriously as he’d appeared.

I’m dashing toward the evergreens when several of the scattering
dealers up ahead suddenly reverse direction. A phalanx of uniformed officers with revolvers and riot guns comes out of nowhere and fires a volley of warning shots. We freeze in our tracks, hands over our heads, as the officers advance in an ever-tightening circle. They frisk us and confiscate our IDs as several large vans with barred windows roll into the clearing.

A sergeant begins calling out names, checking them off on his clipboard as each prisoner is handcuffed and put in the van. He goes through about ten before getting to mine.

“Katkov?”

“Here,” I reply, disgusted, as I cross toward him. “Look, I’m a journalist. I’m not involved in anything illegal. I’m covering a story.”

“Get in.” He shoves me toward the door.

“You’re making a big mistake. Senior Investigator Shevchenko’s a friend of mine.”

The sergeant cocks his head skeptically.

“He is. I’m telling you. Get him on the radio. Give him my name.”

That does the trick. The sergeant takes my arm and leads me through the trees. The sun is creeping over the horizon as we emerge. It sends long shadows across the hills, and silhouettes a tall figure in a trench coat who’s overseeing the operation. Son of a bitch. It’s the senior investigator himself. This is his show. As we’re crossing toward him, two officers, who have the long-haired dealer in custody, beat us to Shevchenko.

“I’m sure we can work something out here,” the dealer says cockily. He pulls a wad of U.S. dollars from his raincoat, removes the rubber band, and starts counting off hundreds. He stops at ten.

Shevchenko turns away and lights a cigarette.

The dealer adds ten more.

Shevchenko exhales impassively. After five more hundreds join the stack, he reconsiders, nods thoughtfully, and pockets it.

The dealer smiles and starts to turn away.

Shevchenko signals the officers. “Take him. Add attempting to bribe a militia officer to the charges and bag this as evidence.”

“You bastard!” the dealer cries out, resisting the attempt to cuff him. “You fucking bastard!”

“Add the use of disrespectful language as well.”

The officers smirk and ratchet the cuffs tight against the dealer’s wrists. The sergeant prods me forward as they lead him away. “This one claims he knows you, sir.”

“Up early today, Mr. Investigator?” I tease.

Shevchenko looks at me blankly for a long moment. “What’s his name?” he asks, deadpan.

My eyes roll. “Come on, Shevchenko.”

“Katkov, Nikolai,” the sergeant growls.