Red Ink (4 page)

“No. I’ve switched to
Independent Gazette,”
he replies with
a grin, referring to the nonpartisan investigative journal that wants to be
The New York Times,
but comes closer to the
New York Post.

“Oh, how come?”

“Well, I think the
News
has become staid. It’s lost its independence.”

“I agree. Why did you suggest it?”

“It just seems more suited to your style.”

“Staid?! Not independent?!”

“You know better than that, Nikolai. The
News
has maturity and substance. The
Gazette
—it’s trendy and hot. Of course, I’m sure they’d be interested.”

“Yes, but everyone takes articles to them. It’s a buyer’s market.”

“Then where?
Commersant? Argumenty i Fakty? Ogonyok?”
he prompts, listing popular liberal journals.

“Pravda.”

“Pravda?!”
Yuri echoes with a derisive snort. Shoppers in a nearby queue react as we board the down escalator. “I thought
Pravda
was out of business?”

“Temporarily. It’s coming back as a political journal. Exposing the scandal would give it legitimacy. That alone would be news.”

“The sort of news that’d get the wires to pick up the story,” Yuri offers, aware that for years Western wire services have been publishing dissident writers and paying them in hard currency instead of rubles.

“Exactly.”

“Even so.
Pravda
is a defunct Communist rag. Their circulation is in the toilet.”

“Which makes it a seller’s market.”

“No. Which is why they pay so little.”

“They’ll pay plenty for this.”

“Come on, no one takes them seriously. You know better than I, the joke has always been that
Pravda
means truth.”

“The only way to stop the laughter is by proving it, by finally publishing truth. I’m going to offer them the best chance they’ll ever have, and they’re going to jump at it.”

“If
you’re right.
If
this alleged corruption can be proven.
If
you are able to—”

“Enough. I have a good feeling about this, Yuri. A very good feeling. It’s going to change my life.”

“Or end it.”

“This is new? We’ve been dealing with thugs for years. Stalin’s thugs, Khrushchev’s thugs, Brezhnev’s thugs. They’re all gone, and we’re still here.”

“True,” he says thoughtfully as the escalator deposits us in a crowd of shoppers scurrying from one queue to the next. “But it’s much more difficult to identify them now.”

4

S
he isn’t here,” Mrs. Parfenov rasps, her birch-twig broom moving in crisp whisks across the cold pavement.

“Thanks. It’s been over twelve hours. I still haven’t heard anything.”

She nods gravely, working a small mound of litter to one side of the staircase.

“Has anyone else been here?” I prompt casually.

“You mean those men, don’t you?”

I nod.

She stops sweeping and grunts no. Then her eyes cloud, and she snaps, “And before you ask, I still can’t remember.”

“What? What you wanted to tell me?”

She nods, annoyed with herself, and sends me inside with a wave of her broom.

No perfume, no coffee, and no surprises this time. The apartment is dark, cold, and empty. I spend several hours working Yuri’s information into the story and fine-tuning clumsy paragraphs. A rush comes over me as I roll the last page from the typewriter. Not because I’m finished. No, this is the beginning, not the end. The sheet of carbon and the copy go into separate trays on my desk; the original, paper-clipped with the other original pages, into a slim, leather briefcase.

My wife gave it to me over twenty years ago when I sold my first story to a French wire service. Faded and scarred, it endured my career far better than our marriage, which ended when my activism endangered her promising medical practice. I snap the tarnished latch and hurry from the apartment, my excitement tempered by Vera’s disappearance and Yuri’s unnerving observation about thugs.

It’s barely midafternoon, but smog and the early dusk of winter have already plunged Lyublino into darkness. Headlights come from behind me, projecting shadows across the gritty facades. My pulse quickens, then settles as the vehicle passes. Not a militia van. Not a KGB troika in a Zhiguli. Just a taxi cruising for fares; but there are no takers among the browsers at the kiosk opposite the Metro station. It’s one of the few that actually sells newspapers. Most are mailed because
Soyuz
Pechat,
the state supplier, won’t pay merchants enough to carry them. But this one gets a fair price from commuters who must leave for work well before their mail is delivered.

I spend the subway ride to
Pravda
checking afternoon editions for stories on Vorontsov’s murder. Not a word in any of them. Shevchenko has kept his promise. The escalator at the Belorusskaya Station in north-central Moscow launches its bundled riders into an icy drizzle. It’s a short walk to the pedestrian underpass that leads to Leningradsky Prospekt; and about half a mile to Pravda Ulitsa and the journal’s gloomily efficient offices at No. 24.

The elevator is in use. I charge up the stairs to the newsroom. Every surface is covered with copy and piles of photographs that threaten to topple. The furniture, lighting, cast-iron radiators, and chatter of manual typewriters are all right out of the fifties. Indeed, everything here is dated. Everything except the faces. Young and diligent, their eager eyes are riveted to the pages in their typewriters.

I snake between the desks to a row of offices at the far end of the newsroom. A chunky middle-aged man with hair that rolls back from his forehead in tight waves sits behind a glass partition labeled EDITOR. Round spectacles bridge his nose giving him the look of a well-fed owl—an “owl” I recognize. This is a stroke of luck beyond anything I could imagine.

Sergei Murashev is a highly respected journalist. Like many Party intellectuals afraid of being shipped off to the gulag, he
kept a low profile until the political climate changed, then came out swinging. He was a charter subscriber of Yuri’s literature exchange, and we’ve worked together on and off over the years. At the moment, Sergei is editing copy with a vengeance and doesn’t notice me in the doorway.

“What am I bid for a juicy political murder with a terrific scandal and an inside source?”

“Nikolai!” he exclaims as he bolts from his chair and circles the desk to greet me.

“You’re the last person I ever expected to find here, Sergei.”

“Ah, it’s a marriage of convenience. They couldn’t find anyone to take the job; and I’ve grown unashamedly accustomed to food, clothing, and shelter.”

My eyes dart to front pages from past editions displayed on the wall behind him. In typical
Pravda
style, each headline is subordinated to the masthead, which depicts Lenin’s profile and proclaims:

Proletarians of the world, Unite!

Communist Party of the Soviet Union

PRAVDA

Established the 5th of May 1912 by V. I. LENIN

Organ of the Central Committee of the CPSU

“I’m surprised those aren’t long gone,” I prompt.

“They were. I put them back.”

“You did what?”

“I don’t ever want to forget; and I want to make damn sure those kids know.” He inclines his head to the newsroom, then gets to the matter at hand. “You really have something for me?”

I nod and slip the pages from my briefcase. “Something special.”

Sergei’s brows arch with anticipation. He settles in the tired cushions of his chair, pushes his glasses onto his forehead, and starts reading. His eyes widen, his jaw tightens, and he begins to fidget. Minutes seem like an eternity.

“Powerful,” he finally pronounces. “Powerful, important, and shocking.”

“Thank you.”

His head cocks challengingly. “You’re positive about this conspiracy to rip off State assets?”

“Shevchenko
’s positive. Really, Sergei, it’s no secret the place is overrun with corruption.”

“And you’re also positive Vorontsov was killed because he was going to blow the whistle?”

“He was head of the IM’s oversight committee. Look, he was either onto it or into it. We’re talking political scandal no matter how you slice it.”

“Good. I’m not interested in doing street crime.”

“Nor am I.”

“Shevchenko’s working with you?”

“Only
with me, if that’s what you mean.”

Sergei nods and chortles at something that occurs to him. “I can see it in the
Washington Post
now: FORMER COMMUNIST PARTY NEWSPAPER EXPOSES CAPITALIST PRIVATIZATION SCHEME.”

“We should be so lucky. I’m more interested in
Pravda
’s headline.”

He hunches down in the chair, rocking back and forth thoughtfully, then eyes twinkling with mischief, Sergei announces, “MURDER FOR PROFIT.”

It’s a stroke of genius. I laugh out loud with delight. “They’ve never seen that one in
Pravda.”

He grins with satisfaction, then knocks his glasses down onto his nose and picks up the pages. “Now for the hard part,” he says awkwardly. “This is a great story, Nikolai, really; but the writing, it’s . . . it’s stilted.”

“Stilted?”

“Yes, you know, full of
Novoyaz,”
he groans, using slang for government-speak. “We don’t use phrases like ‘longtime servant of the Motherland’ or ‘heinous act of hooliganism’ any longer. We don’t
think
the CSP is rife with corruption, Nikolai. We
know
it. Correct?”

I nod, angry with myself.

“Then why not say it outright?”

“Too many years of trying to outsmart
glavit,”
I reply, cursing decades spent cloaking the truth in officially acceptable language to slip it past KGB censors. “Old habits die hard.”

“Tell me about it. I’m the worst. The syntax has to be more contemporary now. More conversational. More, more . . .”

“Westernized.”

He nods emphatically.

I’m crushed and about to argue that it’s a rough draft, that I can easily fix it, when it dawns on me Sergei knows this. He also knows it’s a hot story. Editors are notorious for finding huge problems with free-lance copy, notorious for their “it’s great but needs a lot of work” negotiating technique. It’s an old ploy to keep the price down. I casually gather the pages from his desk and open the flap of my briefcase. “Well, Sergei, if you think it’s beyond repair . . .”

“Beyond repair?!” He pulls the pages from my hand. “This is a lead story—front page—above the fold.”

“A series of follow-ups on Shevchenko go with it,” I declare, pressing the advantage. “The investigator tracks down and apprehends suspects, files charges, testifies at trials . . .”

“A case history as seen through the eyes of a cop,” Sergei says knowingly.

“An ambitious cop.”

Sergei waggles his hand. “I hear he’s not enough of a prick to make chief.”

“Me too. Still, every exclusive has its price. Speaking of which . . .”

“Hold it right there. I took this job on several conditions. A hefty discretionary fund was one of them. You’ll be well paid. I promise you.”

“How well?”

He kicks back in his chair, studying the ceiling. “Oh, say . . . a hundred twenty-five thousand rubles.”

“That’s very poor discretion, Sergei.”

“I hasten to remind you it’s ten times the average weekly wage.”

“Ten? Did I just hear you say ten? Now
that’s
a good number. Yes, ten times the
monthly
wage.”

“Five hundred thousand rubles?!”

“For the lead, and two follow-ups at two-fifty each.”

“No. No, two-fifty for the
lead,
and seventy-five for each follow-up.”

“Why don’t we make it easy for your bookkeepers and round it off to an even three for the lead, and a hundred per follow-up?” I extend a hand.

A long moment passes before Sergei’s meaty fist latches onto mine. “Fair enough. Five hundred thousand.”

“That’s what I said.”

Sergei laughs and tosses his pencil at me. “Now all we have to do is get this ‘Westernized’ in time for the morning edition.”

“I’ll do it here. Just give me a desk where I can—”

“Oh, no. No, not necessary. You were up all night working on it, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“You look it.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Enough. Your face has the pallor of newsprint. A tired writer produces tired copy, my friend. This needs energy and pace.”

“Then who? You?”

He smiles enigmatically and takes, his time lighting a cigarette. After filling the space above his desk with smoke, he reaches to the intercom box next to his phone and depresses the talk button. “Drevnya? Drevnya, get in here, will you?”

On the other side of the glass partition, a young reporter pushes back from a desk and makes his way through the newsroom. Thatches of brown hair fall over his forehead and collar. In his blue jeans, T-shirt, and vest, the kid looks like he’s just come from a rock concert in Sokol’niki Park. Unlike the old-timer at Moscow Beginners, he hasn’t the slightest glimmer of recognition when Sergei introduces us. Dissidents have no cachet with this generation.

“Katkov has brought us a story,” Sergei explains. “An exclusive one. Something that will get this paper off the mark. But it needs your touch.”

The young lion nods smugly and scans the pages with an expression that has “stilted” written all over it. “Looks like an easy fix.” He forces a smile and exits, then, as an afterthought, calls back over his shoulder, “Hell of a piece.”

“He’s good. Very good,” Sergei says, sensing my uneasiness. “He can dig out a story, he can verify facts, he can write, and he’s not afraid. None of these kids are. They don’t give a damn what the Kremlin thinks. Some of the best young journalists I’ve come across in years.”

“You forgot to mention his strong handshake, bristling energy, confident demeanor, and intense eyes. Naturally, I disliked him immediately.”

Sergei laughs heartily. “If it makes you feel any better, he punches up my material too. He’ll punch me right out the door
if I’m not careful. You know why they call political upheavals ‘thaws,’ don’t you?”

“A metaphor for spring; a coming back to life.”

“No. It’s because getting through them is like walking on thin ice.”

“Come on. You’ve got nothing to worry about, and I’m sure the kid’ll do a fine job.” I turn to leave, feeling as dated as the furniture.

“Wait!” Sergei beats me to the door and closes it. “Get that shade, will you?”

I’m reaching for the tasseled pull when my eyes dart to the kid in the newsroom. He’s at his desk, but he’s not typing. He’s talking—animatedly—on the phone. I’m wondering what he’s up to when I hear the clink of glassware behind me. Sergei is removing a bottle of vodka and two tumblers from a sideboard behind his desk.

“Stolichnaya?” Though vodka is more available in Moscow than meat and fresh vegetables, the government reserves the finest for export only.

“Never drink with
two
other people, Nikasha,” he jests, quoting a popular saying as he pours. “You won’t know who the informer was.”

“Unless one of them brought Stolichnaya.”

“Of course. The one with black-market vodka broke the law. He wouldn’t be working with the police. So it would have to be the other one.”

“Not necessarily . . .” I lower the shade over the glass partition. “There’s always a chance the one who broke the law has already been caught.”

He smiles thinly and nods in acknowledgment.
“Zadrovnye,”
he says, handing me one of the glasses. He knocks back the vodka, smacks his lips, and looks at me, wondering what I’m waiting for.

So am I. Hell, I’ve been working my ass off. I have it coming. What
am
I waiting for? Vera’s approval? Probably. This Moscow Beginners stuff was her idea. Where the hell is she when I need her?

A couple of hours later, I find out. I’m heading home on the Metro when my beeper goes off. I still don’t know exactly where Vera is, but chances are she isn’t dead—and isn’t in Lubyanka, Lefortovo, or the gulag. I’m halfway up the stairs to
my apartment when the scent hits me. “Vera?!” I call out as I lunge through the door, which is unlocked.

As I pictured last night, Vera is curled up on the sofa, reading. Her soft platinum hair is swept over one shoulder, the blanket tucked around her legs, the carbons of my article in her lap instead of a book.

“What happened? You okay?”

“Bastards!” she exclaims bitterly as she sets the pages aside and runs into my arms, her flawless White-Russian skin flushing with rage.