Red Ink (32 page)

“Neither could I,” I retort with a grin.

“Yeah, well, every system has its baggage,” Scotto chimes in with a little look to Shevchenko.

“Anything more on the guy with Gudonov?” he asks offhandedly, ignoring us.

The detective shakes his head no.

I’m rocked. They know someone was with Gudonov?! But Yuri’s name still hasn’t surfaced?! I wait until my heart rate returns to normal, then, as nonchalantly as possible, prompt, “What guy?”

“Good question,” Shevchenko replies. “We ran the Gulfstream’s manifest this morning: “Rubineau, Barkhin, their flunkies, and two other names we didn’t recognize. The passport office had no record of them, so we know they were traveling on phony IDs. Obviously one was Gudonov, but we’ve no fix on the other.”

“Probably his flunky,” the detective offers.

“Maybe,” Shevchenko concedes. “Then again, he could be a key player. We don’t know.”

I do. I know who it is, but I still can’t get the pieces to fit: Yuri is the only one not mentioned in
Pravda;
he wasn’t at the incinerating plant; he wasn’t at the Paradise Club; and he’s not on the Gulfstream’s manifest. There has to be a reason. If Gudonov was undercover, is it possible Yuri was too? Like Gudonov, he had cover ID. Like Gudonov, he works for the Interior Ministry. Damn. I’m asking myself the same questions about Yuri now that I was asking about Vorontsov in the beginning. Onto it? Or into it? Under the circumstances, I’m not sure it matters. I’m not even sure Yuri does. “I have a question. Why are we shifting our focus to people?”

“You have a problem with that?” Shevchenko challenges irritably.

“No, but we’ve been following the money all along and unless I misunderstood, regardless of who the players are, we don’t have a case without the money. It’d be like trying to prosecute a homicide without a corpse, wouldn’t it?”

“He’s right,” Scotto says forcefully. “No money, no case. The world thinks it went up in smoke. We have to prove it didn’t. We find that container, we’ll have a shot at nailing the creeps. We don’t, it doesn’t matter who they are, because they’re all gonna walk.”

Shevchenko nods grudgingly and stares at the map. We’re wracking our brains and jumping at every ringing phone when I hear myself say, “I know where it is.”

Two heads snap around as if reacting to a gunshot. “What? Where?”

“At least, I think I do.”

“Come on, come on,” Scotto urges frantically, her eyes locked onto mine.

I hold them for a long moment, deciding; then look away. “No. No, this one’s personal. I’m going to have to do it alone.”

“Chrissakes, Katkov!” Scotto erupts.

“No fucking way,” Shevchenko roars. “You tell us what you have, or I’m going to bust your ass for withholding evidence.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have evidence. Frankly, it’s little more than a vague hunch. You let me run with it, I might get you some.”

Shevchenko glares at me.

Scotto throws up her hands. “I don’t believe this.”

“I didn’t have to say anything you know.”

They exchange looks, reconsidering.

“You said you owe me one, Scotto. Why don’t we—”

“That was personal.”

“So is this, dammit.”

“Vera?”

“No, thank God.”

“Well, you’re the agent-in-charge, Shevchenko,” Scotto finally says, “but if you don’t mind me putting my two cents in, I figure we’ve got nothing to lose.”

Shevchenko scowls in thought, then nods grudgingly.

“I’m going to need your car, Scotto.”

Her eyes are hard and threatening. “Don’t fuck me on this, Katkov.”

“Not in your wildest dreams.”

Scotto holds the look for a moment, then smiles and drops the keys in my palm. “Katkov?” she calls out as I head for the door. I stop and turn back toward her. She takes the pistol from her holster and hands it to me. “I hope you don’t need it.”

43

T
he city is virtually free of traffic, and the Zhiguli makes quick work of Moscow’s streets. It’s soon barreling north on the Yaroslavl Highway through rolling countryside. Occasionally, light from a window glimmers in the blackness. Despite the empty roads, the trip to Sudilova takes well over two hours. After several wrong turns in the maze of ancient streets, I find the narrow thoroughfare that snakes west into the Ustye Valley.

Dirt roads branch off in every direction. The wind-lashed tree that marks the one I want finally appears in the Zhiguli’s headlights. I shut them off, and make the turn past the mailbox without a name. Patches of melting snow dot long-neglected fields that flank the bumpy road. Weathered farm buildings loom like ghostly apparitions in the darkness. No lights. No vehicles. No sentries. No sign of life save a curl of smoke that comes from the chimney of the old house.

I park the Zhiguli behind the stand of pines where the road forks. The air is cool, the ground soft as I get out of the car clutching Scotto’s pistol. I take cover in the trees, scoop up a handful of rocks, and throw them at the barn’s sagging door. I don’t have to see the container to know it’s inside. The sudden appearance of armed guards would send me slinking back to the Zhiguli with sufficient proof. None respond to the salvo. I
fire another to be certain. Nothing. Maybe I took the wrong road? Maybe I’m wrong about this hunch? Nothing but stillness and the sound of wind in the trees as I advance toward the barn.

Deep tire ruts lead right to the door. A tractor pulling a plow? Or an eighteen-wheeler pulling a cash-filled container? The hasp is thrown, but a rusty horseshoe nail, not a padlock, secures it. The overhead tracks and rollers chatter in protest as I roll the door back just enough to slip inside.

As if sent by an angry God, a shaft of moonlight slices through the narrow opening and strikes the huge shipping container. The eighteen-wheeler is gone, and the forty-ton box sits on the floor between the empty horse stalls. It’s not going anywhere. There’s no need to advertise its presence; no need to deploy guards who might be tempted to help themselves to the money, or worse, brag about it. Rubineau and Barkhin aren’t the only ones keeping a low profile. There’s no need to check for my initials, or the restenciled number either. I’ve found what I’m after. My emotions soar, running the gamut from satisfaction to extreme disappointment. I stare at the container for a few heady moments, then leave the barn and stride swiftly up the hill to the house.

A light burns dimly in one of the windows now. I slither along the wall and peer inside. Almost wider than she is high, wrapped in her coarse wool sweater and ever-present scarf, Yuri’s mother is leaning into a massive stone fireplace vigorously stoking the embers to life. I slip the pistol under my jacket and knock on the windowpane. “Mrs. Ternyak?”

She straightens and turns to the sound. “Who’s there?” she calls out, her voice wavering with age and apprehension.

“It’s Nikolai, Mrs. Ternyak. Nikolai Katkov.”

She shuffles to the door and opens it. “Nikolai?” she repeats, a little confused, eyes straining to see through the cataracts that cloud them. She hugs me with surprising strength, then leans to one side, looking around me. “Is Yuri with you?”

“No. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“Well, he always comes on Saturday for breakfast. He shouldn’t be long.” Her brow furrows with confusion. “You know, I think he was here this week. Yesterday? The day before?” She sighs, angry at herself. “He told me he put some equipment in the barn.”

“Ah, he said he wanted to show me something. I guess that’s it. Why don’t I wait there for him?”

I have many questions to ask Yuri, but one in particular. I also have time, the element of surprise, and an idea or two about how to get at the truth. I return to the Zhiguli and drive it around to the side of the barn away from the road. It suddenly dawns on me that I have something for Yuri, and this is the perfect time to give it to him. I rummage through my bags in the backseat until I find it, then hurry inside the barn.

The shaft of moonlight is gradually replaced by the pale wash of morning. Several hours later, the sound of an approaching car breaks the silence. I pull the pistol from my waistband and step behind the door. The old wooden planks are warped and uneven, and through the spaces I can see Yuri’s Lada approaching on the road. It reaches the fork and lurches to a stop. Yuri is staring at the barn, staring right at the door. I had no doubt that he’d notice it’s open, no doubt that instead of continuing to the house, he’d detour here.

The car angles left, curves down the gentle slope, and creaks to a stop in front of the barn. The ratchet of the hand brake sends a chill through me. I watch from behind the door as Yuri gets out and looks about curiously. He’s alone and doesn’t appear to be armed. I back away, slip into one of the horse stalls where some hay bales are stored, and crouch behind them.

The hollow thunk of the car door follows. A few footsteps. A shadow. Yuri leans into the barn. “Mom?” he calls out warily. “Mom? It’s Yuri. You in there? Mom?” He enters, squinting at the darkness, and sweeps his eyes over the container. Satisfied that the locks are secure, he turns to leave, then stops suddenly and stiffens as if stabbed between the shoulder blades. I’ve no doubt his eyes are staring at the word
Coppelia,
staring at the napkin that I’ve affixed to the inside of the door. He fingers it curiously and removes it from the nail.

I conceal the pistol beneath my jacket and step out behind him. “Hello, Yuri.”

He turns slowly, his face taut with uncertainty. “Nikolai?” he wonders weakly.

“I thought that might get your attention.”

He stares at me for a long moment. My mind is racing. Is he armed? Will he go for his gun? Should I go for mine? Instead,
he shrugs and smiles wanly in concession. “Did you have some when you were there?”

“No, I’m afraid I lost my taste for ice cream when I realized what it meant.”

“Shame. It’s much better than anything we have here. One of the few things Castro did well, actually. That and baseball, as I understand it. Boring game. Barkhin insisted I go to one.”

“So you needed a name for a dummy corporation; naturally ‘Coppelia’ came to mind.”

“Naturally. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I thought privatization deals were outside your area? You’ve come a long way, but empowered to act on behalf of the government? I’d no idea.”

“Well, as you know, there’s been quite a bit of restructuring going on lately; and there may have been a promotion or two I didn’t get around to mentioning,” he explains, pleased with himself. “I don’t mean to be immodest, but my superiors were so taken by my ideas on reform, they eventually made me responsible for carrying them out.”

“Really? Sounds like it’s time to get rid of that crummy apartment and the wreck you’ve been driving. Upgrade your lifestyle to something more befitting a man with four phones on his desk.”

“As you may have noticed,” he counters in a sarcastic tone that equals mine, “I’ve been dealing with more pressing matters. That was you in the ceiling at the Riviera, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Took some rather interesting pictures too.” Yuri’s eyes neither blink nor narrow in reaction; he seems wholly unthreatened. “Why did you let me go in the first place?”

“You mean to Washington? As you recall, I tried to dissuade you at first. Then it dawned on me that you couldn’t hurt, you could only help.”

“I don’t understand.”

Yuri breaks into a smug grin that sends the tips of his mustache toward the corners of his eyes. “I figured if push came to shove, you’d be arguing to let the container go. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“How—how could you be so sure?”

“You’re not a cop, Nikolai, you’re a journalist. A Russian journalist. That container doesn’t get to Moscow, you don’t get your story.”

My eyes flare at the insult. “How could you do this? After all we’ve been through. How?!”

“I haven’t done anything, Nikasha. I—”

“Don’t Nikasha me, you bastard!” I pull the pistol from inside my jacket and come at him in a rage. “All these years, you and the fucking KGB!”

“KGB?! No! You’re wrong!” he shouts hysterically, backing away. “Never! You don’t understand. Listen, I—”

“Lying fuck! I’m going to splatter your brains all over this barn!” Yuri is backed up against the wall. I level the pistol at his head, letting him squirm for a few seconds before pulling the trigger. A blue-orange flash. A loud crack. The bullet whistles past his ear, punching a hole in the siding.

Yuri emits a terrified yelp. He’s frantic, like a cornered rat. I take aim and fire another shot over his head. Blam! Wood chips fill the air. He’s cowering, close to panic. “On second thought, maybe I’ll just beat the shit out of you!” I raise the pistol and charge, threatening to smash him with the butt. He grasps my wrist with one hand and throws a punch with the other. We tumble to the floor, struggling for control of the weapon. It slips from my grasp and skitters away. I lunge for it, but Yuri is wiry and quicker, and swipes it from beneath my hand. We both scramble to our feet. He backs away, leveling the pistol at me. “Now calm down and listen, dammit!” he shouts, gasping for breath. “I’m a patriot, Nikolai. I care about Russia as much as you do.”

“Bullshit!”

“Listen, dammit, will you! I spent my life trying to bring the Communists down, and you know it! This is our chance to get rid of them forever, but it will take money, lots of it.”

“You know where this comes from?!”

“I could care less!”

“You want American crime syndicates to take over our industries?!”

“They’re putting money into the country, Nikolai. The Russian mobsters are taking it out!”

“We don’t need it, dammit! The United States gave us a billion and a half dollars. The G-Seven countries will soon—”

“Aggghh! You’re so naive! Whether we have a Communist, fascist, or democratic government, it’s still going to be a
Russian
government—a bottomless pit of bureaucratic quicksand
that’ll suck up everything in its path. None of that money’ll ever get to the people.”

“And this will?!” I protest angrily, gesturing to the container.

“Yes, it’s bypassing the system completely! I’m going to distribute it directly to small businessmen, manufacturers, entrepreneurs. Thanks to the ministry I’ve access to a wealth of data, Nikolai. I’ve spent hours analyzing it and compiling lists of those citizens who’d use the money well. I’m not talking loans, mind you, I’m talking subsidies. To buy equipment and raw materials, to create jobs and fill empty stomachs, to put meat on the table and bread on the shelves! It’s going to insure that the average Russian doesn’t give up on democracy before this wretched economy gets turned around.”

I’m stunned. That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “I may be mistaken, Yuri, but I thought Rubineau was investing it in our distribution systems.”

Yuri breaks into that rodent’s smile. “So did he.”

The pieces have suddenly fallen into place with staggering impact. The reason we didn’t crash a party at the Paradise Club last night had nothing to do with Barkhin and Rubineau keeping a low profile. They weren’t holding off the celebration. They were holding a wake—a wake for a container of cash that never came. Their cockiness wasn’t due to the thrill of victory, but to the delicious irony of defeat, the realization that they’d have been caught red-handed by Shevchenko if they hadn’t been duped. “You double-crossed him?”

Another smile. “
Used
him would be more accurate. He wanted to help Russia, and he has. A one-point-eight-billion-dollar donation. At the current exchange rate, it would take less than half of it to buy all the privatization vouchers the government has issued. Of course, Rubineau can’t very well invest money that’s been incinerated by the police now, can he? And, as far as he’s concerned"—Yuri chuckles delightedly—"I’m as upset over it as he is.”

“Gudonov.”

Yuri nods. “Couldn’t have done it without him.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing business with that asshole.”

“
Assholes,
Nikolai. Plural. You’re forgetting his pal at
Pravda.”

“Drevnya?”

Yuri smiles.

I groan in disgust. My eyes drift to the pistol.

“Not my favorite people either,” he concedes. “But I’d deal with the devil himself if it’d buy us enough time. You know what’s been going on here since you left?”

I nod glumly.

“Well, I’m pleased to report Yeltsin survived again. Three out of three isn’t bad, but how long can he keep this up?”

“The law of averages is bound to catch up with him. I know.”

“And do you know what today is?”

“Saturday, isn’t it? Why?”

“It’s also May Day, Nikolai.”

“May Day? My God.”

“How quickly we forget: the constant fear, the terror, the gulag, the KGB listening to every call, watching every move. You want the hard-liners back? You’ve forgotten what it was like?”

“Forgotten?! I’m the one who lived it, Yuri, not you! Why didn’t you confide in me?”

“Please, Nikolai, be realistic. You were hooked on the story. Unstoppable. Like a pit bull. Look at you. You still are.”

“Come on, dammit! You know how I get when I—”

“I rest my case,” he interrupts smugly. “Don’t get defensive. I’m not faulting you. I’m asking you to understand that I feel just as strongly about this.”

“Fair enough.” I study his eyes for a moment. “There’s something else I have to know. You had Vorontsov killed?”

Yuri winces as if offended, then glances self-consciously to the gun, wishing he wasn’t holding it. “It wasn’t quite that cold-blooded. You recall what Henry the Second said of Becket?”

“ ‘Who will free me from this’ . . . this pain in the ass, or whatever the hell it was.”

“ ‘Turbulent priest.’ Vorontsov was becoming a problem, and Barkhin was quick to—to take it on, for want of a better phrase.”

“You’re no better than him.”

Yuri’s face flushes with anger. “Vorontsov was a pompous fool, Nikolai! He didn’t care about Russia. He was only interested in himself, in holding on to power like these idiots in Parliament! I begged, pleaded, cajoled him not to blow the
whistle. I even told him what I was going to do. He wouldn’t back down. Kept going on about his fucking integrity.”