Red Ink (15 page)

She emits a wistful sigh. “My grandfather built it.”

“Then you have first claim. They can’t do that.”

She sighs resignedly. “They can do anything they want, Nikasha. It’s too late now. They’ve already bribed someone to transfer the ownership documents. You know those bastards at ZHEK,” she says, cursing the clerks at the Housing Administration. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Because this is the first I’m hearing about it,” I reply, on the verge of losing my patience.

“Oh, I know I mentioned it.”

“No. No, Mrs. Parfenov. Not to me. I think I’d remember being told I was being put out on the street. I have a feeling you may have been on the verge several times, but—”

“You’re always so preoccupied, Nikasha. You probably forgot. Don’t feel badly. Some of my friends can’t seem to remember anything either. It happens when you get older. I’m sure my time will come. Anyway . . .” She pauses, trying to recall what she was going to say. “Oh, yes, yes, the building. I was telling you about the building. I think they’re going to knock it down and put up a café to sell cheese-and-tomato pies to the refinery workers.” She hands me a mailer that proudly proclaims this will be the site of Moscow’s newest Pizza Hut.

I gather what’s left of my wits, then climb the stairs to my apartment. It’s empty, eerie, as if I’ve never lived here. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the KGB has just done one of their notorious
obysks.
Like most encounters with the Secret Police, these began with a knock on the door in the middle of the night. Sometimes it was just ripped from its hinges. Then, pushing aside the terrified occupants, a horde of agents entered the apartment, searching it top to bottom before carting off everything in sight. Items identified as evidence of criminal behavior—items like forbidden books—were meticulously catalogued. I take a few moments to regain my composure, then charge downstairs. Mrs. Parfenov shuffles after me, wrapping herself in a shawl.

The movers have finished and are swinging the van’s big door closed. I convince them to wait until I retrieve my typewriter
and a suitcase, which I quickly fill with clothing from the dresser.

Mrs. Parfenov and I watch as the van rumbles off, cutting tracks deep into the fresh snow. She tightens her shawl and studies me with knowing eyes. “You know, Nikasha,” she finally says, with an amused smile, “when I was a little girl and couldn’t get my way, my mother had a saying—a perfectly wonderful saying. Of course, I didn’t think it was so wonderful then. You know what it was?”

“No, no, I’ve no idea.”

Her eyes crinkle as if she’s forgotten it; then she wags a finger at me and rasps, “‘Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.’”

I nod forlornly, wishing I had her mother’s sagacity. “So, you have a place to stay?”

“I have a sister in Leningrad,” she replies in a tone that leaves no doubt she can’t bring herself to call it St. Petersburg.

“Well,” I say after an awkward silence, “thanks for everything, Mrs. Parfenov. Take care of yourself.” She smiles, wraps her bony arms around my torso, and hugs me with surprising strength. I tuck the typewriter under one arm, grab the suitcase, and trudge off toward the Metro, my briefcase swinging from the other.

The wind turns the snow into a swirling haze. A perfect metaphor for my increasingly surreal existence. Homeless. A busted career. Down to my last ruble. I’ll probably end up like those lost souls who stand on street corners hawking their belongings to buy groceries. I feel terribly alone, rudderless, as if I’m starting life all over. I’d call Vera, but she’d probably hang up on me again. Moscow Beginners. Yeah, maybe Ludmilla will be there. If that doesn’t work, I could always spend another night or two at Yuri’s. I’ve taken about a half-dozen steps when Mrs. Parfenov’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Nikasha? Nikasha? I almost forgot,” she says, slipping the folded newspaper from within her shawl as I reverse direction. “I found this behind the dresser when they moved it.”

“Behind the dresser?”

She nods.

“It’s a week-old newspaper, Mrs. Parfenov,” I say, recalling Vera’s rage when she threw it at me. “What am I going to do with it?”

“Well, I thought maybe you’d put it there for safekeeping or something.”

“For safekeeping?”

“Those men who were looking for you? You know, I thought maybe you were afraid they’d search your apartment.”

“Did they?”

“No, but if they had, they might’ve found this.” She removes a rubberband from around the newspaper and unfolds it, revealing an envelope inside.

I set the typewriter atop the suitcase, then open the envelope and remove the contents. My eyes widen in total shock.

“Is it something important?”

I nod emphatically, the words catching in my throat. “I got my wish, Mrs. Parfenov,” I finally reply, unable to believe I’m actually holding Vorontsov’s documents. “I just got my wish.”

19

M
rs. Parfenov?” Yuri exclaims in disbelief as I slip the documents from my briefcase onto his desk. The Interior Ministry is a turn-of-the-century edifice of epic proportions, and Yuri’s office is considerably larger than his apartment. Reams of printouts covered with mathematical computations and economic forecasts—produced by an antiquated computer and daisy-wheel printer that chatters like a machine gun—are piled on every surface and tacked up on walls, encircling the room like miles of bunting. “How the hell did that old
babushka
get her hands on them?”

“Vera,” I reply glumly, going on to explain about the newspaper.

Yuri tilts backs in his chair and studies me curiously. “What’s wrong? You should be thrilled.”

“I am.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“Half of me is; the other half feels like shit. I mean, Vera took a big chance for me—Shevchenko’d lock her up and throw away the key if he knew—then she finds me in the sack with Ludmilla, for Chrissakes.”

“Naturally,” Yuri says, still unable to contain his laughter at the thought.

“Come on, Yuri, think of how she must’ve felt. Besides, I really miss her.”

“Well, call her and tell her that.”

“I tried. She hung up on me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says solemnly, realizing it won’t be easily smoothed over. “I miss her too.”

Melancholia turns to anticipation as we spread the documents on a small conference table and begin reviewing them. They’re all unsigned drafts with blank spaces where names and signatures will be inserted. They confirm Vorontsov was over-seeing deals with companies wishing to invest in various Russian businesses and industries. The investors run the gamut from small businesses to multinational giants: IBM, ITT, ATT, ITZ, TWA, Amex, Exxon, Levi Strauss, Caterpillar, Agritech, GM, GE, CNN, Royal Dutch Shell, Pizza Hut—but that’s it. There’s nothing in the documents that indicates illegitimate money sources are involved; nothing that smells of capital flight; that connects the deals to Seabeco, Galaktik, Istok, or any of the other companies with foreign charters founded by former Party officials to move money out of Russia; or that even hints at corruption, let alone implicates Barkhin or anyone else. It’s a waste of time. A crushing disappointment. Shevchenko was right.

We’re staring at them in gloomy silence when Yuri’s phone rings. “Ternyak,” he answers, in a voice laden with uncharacteristic authority—but the phone continues ringing. He groans, slams it down, and scoops up another. But the ringing continues. The victim of ancient technology that dooms those important enough to have multiple lines to working at desks covered with phones, Yuri unearths another, and yet another from beneath the papers and printouts in a frantic hit-and-miss routine bordering on slapstick. “Ternyak—Ternyak—Ternyak—Ah,” he replies, brightening when finally greeted by a voice instead of a dial tone. Then, seeming a little self-conscious, he lowers his voice and says, “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . of course. I have someone in my office. I might be a little late.” He hangs up and pushes the phone aside. “It’s a conspiracy. I mean, I don’t know how they do it, but somehow it’s always the last one I pick up.”

I smile at the irony and begin gathering the documents. “So, who is she?”

Yuri looks puzzled.

“The phone call. Sort of sounded like a date.”

“I wish,” Yuri replies with a wistful sigh. “It was just someone confirming a meeting.”

“Sure it was. Come on, stop being so evasive. What’s her name?”

“Igor,” he replies with a chuckle. “My policy team is meeting tonight to get ready for a meeting tomorrow; after which, we’ll have a meeting to review the meeting, and schedule more meetings.” His eyes roll in dismay. “If talk could drive this economy, we’d make Japan look like Honduras. Sorry, where were we?”

“Throwing in the towel.” I’m about to put the documents back in my briefcase when something dawns on me: We identified all the companies except one—ITZ. Neither of us have any idea what it stands for. The documents, dealing with privatizing State distribution systems—trucking, shipping, rail freight, air cargo, and warehousing—are filled with phrases like: ITZ will do . . . ITZ will receive . . . ITZ will guarantee . . . ITZ will have access to . . . But unlike other companies that are first identified by their full name—International Business Machines ("IBM") will provide—with initials being used alone for the sake of brevity thereafter, ITZ is never fully identified.

“I
probably stands for International,” Yuri suggests, printing the three letters on a pad.

“Probably. Then again, it could be Institute, Independent, Inter, Intra, Intelstat, Interstellar—”

“Okay, okay,” Yuri interrupts like an impatient parrot. “Let’s stick with International for now. What about
T?
Transport, Telephone, Telecom, Telesis, Technics, Thermodynamics . . .”

“Thermonuclear, Telegraph, Television, Trans, Tri, Trade, Transfer, Transworld, Technology, Techtonics, Tactics, Textile . . .”

“Enough,” Yuri says, quickly jotting them down. “What about
Z?"

“Zoo, Zipper, Zone . . .”

“Zephyr, Zinc . . .”

“Zilch.”

Yuri nods. “Tough one.”

I fetch an English dictionary from the bookcase behind his desk, and turn to the Zs. “Zenith, Zircon, Zither, Zurich . . .”

“International Telecommunications Zurich,” Yuri suggests, taking a stab at a combination.

“Institute of Trade Zagreb.”

“International Textile and Zipper.”

“International Technology and . . . and . . . and what? Zinc? Zirconium?”

“Zoology.”

“Zucchini.”

“Independent Transport . . . something or other,” Yuri suggests halfheartedly; then his eyes brighten with a thought. “Maybe it’s a law firm? The Ministry’s overrun with attorneys lately.”

“Not surprising. An active legal system is as crucial to making democracy work as a free press.”

He throws up his hands in protest. “Please, these lawyers are driving us crazy. From what I’ve seen, ITZ probably stands for Inept, Tedious, and Zany.”

“Well, as long as we’re indulging in lawyer-bashing—Ignominious, Tautology, and"—I scan the dictionary for an appropriate pejorative that starts with Z—"and Zoanthropy.”

“Zoanthropy?”

“A form of mental disorder in which the patient imagines himself to be a beast.”

“How about, Illusive, Temperamental, and Zaftig?” Yuri fires back.

“Attorneys?”

“No. My ex-wife.” More laughter before Yuri sags in capitulation. “Forget it, Nikolai. This is ridiculous. We’re wasting our time.”

I’m prone to agree. But his joke has brought Agent Scotto to mind, which reminds me of something she said, which, if I’m not mistaken, solves the puzzle.

Yuri notices the smile spreading across my face. “What? Come on, I know you have it.”

I shake my head no, savoring the irony. “It doesn’t stand for anything, Yuri.”

“It doesn’t?”

“That’s why it’s not identified like the others. I take the pad and pencil from him, and in front of the letters
ITZ
I write the letters
R-U-B-I-N-O-W—
so it now reads
RUBINOWITZ.

“Rubinowitz?” Yuri wonders, clearly baffled. “I don’t get it. Who’s he?”

“Michael Rubinowitz. That was thirty years ago. Now known as Michael Rubineau. Hangs out at the Paradise. Runs a chain of hotels in America—”

“I still don’t get it.”

“—connected to the Jewish mafia.”

Yuri’s brows arch with intrigue. “I get it now. You think he had Vorontsov killed?”

“I don’t know. Shevchenko said he didn’t think Barkhin was behind it.”

“You realize how big this is, if you’re right?”

“Well,” I say, glowing with satisfaction, “it’s a lot bigger than a shoe factory in Zuzino.”

“What’re you going to do? Go to the cops?”

I shrug; then my mind starts racing, and I hear myself say, “Yeah—an American cop.”

“That woman?”

“That illusive, temperamental, zaftig woman,” I reply with a grin, crossing to the phone. “You have the number for the U.S. Embassy handy?”

Yuri fetches his little black book—leatherbound, chock-full of alphabetized phone numbers and addresses, and stuffed with odd slips of paper on which others are scribbled, awaiting entry. It’s among his most valued possessions. Westerners say the same of their Rolodexes and Filofaxes, but it’s not the same. They haven’t lived in closed societies, in cities without telephone directories. Their black books haven’t been their only link to family, friends, and business associates through decades of secrecy and oppression. Yuri dials the number on one of the phones and hands it to me.

“Yes, I’m trying to reach Special Agent Scotto. Gabriella Scotto . . . That’s right, with your Treasury Department. A group called FinCEN. . . . Oh . . . Yes, please. . . . Uh-huh . . . uh-huh. . . . Thank you.”

Yuri questions me with a look. “She’s gone?”

I nod glumly. “Back to Washington. They gave me a number for her.”

“Good. Call. Be my guest. On second thought, better wait till you get back to my apartment. It could take hours to get an overseas line.”

“I know.”

“What does that mean?” Yuri challenges, picking up on my lack of enthusiasm. “You’re giving up?”

“No. No, just thinking. I’m out of work. I’ve got no place to live. People have been trying to kill me. Might be a good idea if I got away for a while.”

Yuri recoils slightly and makes a face. “You mean to America?”

“Why not? My great-grandfather went over a hundred years ago. I’ve never been out of Russia. Maybe it’s time.”

“How? Airfare alone is more than a million rubles. And in case you’ve forgotten, along with being homeless and unemployed, you’re also broke.”

“I don’t need to be reminded, believe me; but you’re forgetting about these.” I remove Vorontsov’s medals from my briefcase. “They might be my ticket out of here.”

“You’re going to sell them?”

“The thought’s crossed my mind.”

“How much are they worth?”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Dollars?”

I nod.

“You could do a lot of traveling on that,” Yuri muses, running his fingertips over his mustache. “And you wouldn’t have any trouble selling them?”

“On the black market? They’d be gone like that.”

“Yes, Nikolai, I’m quite sure they would,” he says disapprovingly.

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Yuri. I know that tone. You’re accusing me of something unethical.”

“Yes. Frankly, the thought of selling them makes me uncomfortable. It’s not like you. The medals belong to Mrs. Churkin. I thought you were—”

“Of course they do.”

“Well, then you should return them.”

“I am,” I say with a little smile. “I don’t recall saying, I wasn’t. I said they might be my ticket out of here.”

There is a newspaper on the mat in front of the door to Mrs. Churkin’s apartment when I arrive. She doesn’t respond to the
buzzer, and I return to the lobby and settle in one of the big leather chairs. They feel smaller than they did thirty years ago, but they smell the same. The musty odor conjures up distant memories, unpleasant ones of my father being led away, of my mother crying, of being forced to move in with relatives, of the disgrace. I’m lost in my thoughts when the huge door creaks open and the children burst through it, pulling me out of the reverie. Mrs. Churkin is right behind them, carrying a chic, pastel blue shopping bag that proclaims ESTÉE LAUDER. Her eyes flare at the sight of me, leaving no doubt she’s seen the story in
Pravda.

“I have some good news, Mrs. Churkin,” I say, hoping to defuse her anger before it erupts.

“Blackmail?! My father was a blackmailer!” she exclaims as she blows past me, shooing the children toward the elevator. “That’s good news?!”

“I didn’t write that story.” She stops dead in her tracks and turns to face me. “Any of it.”

“You started it,” she counters, thumbing the elevator button angrily. “You were supposed to get his medals for me. You—”

“I did,” I fire back.

She tilts her head and stares at me skeptically.

“I have them right here,” I explain, holding up my briefcase.

Her eyes flicker with hope that turns slowly to delight. “Oh. Oh, that’s wonderful.”

The moment is broken by the rumble of the elevator door rolling open. The four of us pile in. As soon as we enter the apartment she sends the children off to their rooms, then takes the envelope from me, crosses to the dining room table, and sits down. Her hands quickly undo the clasp and open the flap. She pauses momentarily, then gently slides the medals onto the white lace. A colorful pile of satin and gold shimmers in the soft light. She picks up one of the medals, straightens the ribbon, and sets it down, reverently. She does the same with another and then another.

“Did your father ever mention the name Rubineau?”

She shakes her head no, her attention riveted to the medals that she’s arranging in neat rows as if pinning them on a jacket.

“What about Rubinowitz?”

“No, not that I recall,” she replies, looking up at me, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Why?”

“Well, I’m betting that’s who your father was involved with—blackmailer, coconspirator, whistle blower, I’ve no idea.”

“I don’t recall seeing either of those names in the story.”

“They weren’t.”

She sighs with impatience. “What do you want, Mr. Katkov, money?”

“No, Mrs. Churkin. I want the truth.”

“So do I. I’ve little hope of ever finding it.”

“Depends on where you look.”

“You know where?” she asks, picking up on the inference as I intended.

“USA.”

“America?” she wonders, a little awestruck.

I nod.

“Well, we’re all free to travel now. Why don’t you go there and find it?”

“I plan to, but there are a few things I have to work out. First, this is ugly business and could get uglier. It’s important you understand that instead of clearing your father’s name, I may end up proving he was every bit the corrupt
apparatchik
they claim he is.”