Red Square (16 page)

   
What was the Chief of Criminal Investigation doing with Jaak? Why was Penyagin at the Lenin's Path Collective Farm? If it was a payoff, since when did generals collect in person? Arkady resisted the temptation to kick him back into the pit.

   
Instead, he peeled open Penyagin's jacket to remove the dead man's internal passport, Ministry pass and Party card. Inside the vinyl book that held the card a list of phone numbers was pressed against the image of Lenin's damp cheek.

   
The car keys in Penyagin's pocket unlocked the Moskvitch in the garage. Under the dashboard shelf was a briefcase stuffed with the pasteboard-and-ribbon folders of Soviet officialdom - Ministry directives and memoranda, raw reports and 'correct analyses' - two oranges and a ham wrapped in a copy of the Tass news digest
For Official Use Only
.

   
Arkady locked the briefcase and car, wiped his prints from the car door, replaced the keys in Penyagin's trousers and radioed from his own car for help. He returned to Jaak and emptied the detective's pockets of keys. Two were house keys, a third was large and looked as if it had been fashioned to open a castle door. The Volvo keys were probably still in the car. Whoever put the car in the pit had probably just set the car in 'Drive'.

   
He walked around Jaak. Was this worth it? His entire body stung. He found himself in front of the fire, which blazed away, cartons roaring, ignoring the rain. He remembered Rudy's words: 'legal anywhere else in the world'. Kim had led them on. Jaak had come close. For what? Things were no better, they were worse. A flaming carton tumbled from the top of the pyramid, a rolling cube lit inside and out. It crashed, split and sputtered out on a tide of Russian shit. 'Some things never change': Rudy had said that, too.

Arkady upended a bucket and let the water flow over his head, chest and back. Waiting for his radio call to be answered, he had built a fire in the hearth of the slaughterhouse using cardboard and coal. Now the yard was lit like a circus with a generator lorry, lamps, breakdown van, fire engine and two forensic vans, and animated by the silhouettes of Ministry troops racing back and forth in combat gear. But the only person in the slaughterhouse with Arkady was Rodionov, the city prosecutor, who kept to the shadow beside the door. As the fire in the hearth shifted, the pig on the hook took on a restless aspect. Water spread in rays from Arkady's feet, the runoff following the blood grooves of the floor.

   
'Kim and the Chechens are obviously working together,' Rodionov said. 'It seems clear to me that poor Penyagin was abducted and brought here, shot either before or after he arrived, and then the detective was murdered afterwards. You agree?'

   
'Oh, I understand Kim killing Jaak,' Arkady said. 'But why would anyone go to the bother of shooting the chief of Criminal Investigation?'

   
'You've answered your own question. Naturally they'd want to remove someone as dangerous as Penyagin.'

   
'Penyagin? Dangerous?'

   
'Some respect, please.' Rodionov glanced at the doorway.

   
Arkady walked to the butchering block, where a towel lay over the cast-off plain clothes that had been brought from the prosecutor's office. His shoes and jacket were beside them. As far as he was concerned, his own clothes could be burned. He started to dry himself on the towel.

   
'Why are there Ministry troops out here? Where's the regular militia?'

   
Rodionov said, 'Remember we're outside Moscow. We got the men who were available.'

   
'They certainly got here quickly and they look like they're available to go to war. Is there something I'm not aware of?'

   
'No,' Rodionov said.

   
'I'd like to add this to the Rosen investigation.'

   
'Definitely not. The killing of Penyagin is an assault on the entire structure of justice. I'm not going to tell the Central Committee that we added General Penyagin to the investigation of a common speculator. I can't believe that this morning Penyagin and I were together at a funeral. You can't imagine the shock.'

   
'I saw you.'

   
'What were you doing at the cemetery?'

   
'Burying my father.'

   
'Oh.' Rodionov grunted as if he had expected a more imaginative excuse. 'Condolences.'

   
Through the door, the yard was so full of incandescent lamps that it looked ablaze. As the Volvo was winched from the pit, water poured in bright fountains from the doors.

   
'I'll fold the Rosen investigation into the Penyagin investigation.' Arkady pulled on dry trousers.

   
Rodionov sighed as if a difficult decision had been forced on him. 'We want someone working full-time on Penyagin and nothing else. Someone fresh, more objective.'

   
'Who are you placing in charge? Whoever it is will have to spend time getting briefed on Rudy.'

   
'Not necessarily.'

   
'You're going to bring in someone cold?'

   
'For your sake.' Rodionov glanced around to demonstrate solidarity with Arkady. 'People will say that if Renko had found Kim, Penyagin would still be alive. They'll blame you for the tragic deaths of both your detective and the general.'

   
'We have no evidence that Penyagin was abducted. All we know is that he's here.'

   
Rodionov was pained. 'This sort of innuendo and speculation is uncalled for. See, you're too close to this case.'

   
The shirt was a sail with sleeves. Arkady tucked it in and slipped his bare feet into the shoes. 'So who are you putting in charge of the investigation?'

   
'A younger man, someone who can bring more vigour to this case. In fact, this person is very well versed on Rosen. There should be no problems of coordination at all.'

   
'Who?'

   
'Minin.'

   
'
My
Minin? Little Minin?'

   
Rodionov became firmer. 'I've already talked to him. We're raising him a grade so that he'll have equal authority to you. I think we may have made a mistake by bringing you back to Moscow, by glorifying you and letting you loose on the city. You should be careful or you're going to fall further than you did before. I must tell you that not only will Minin bring more vigour to this case, he will also bring a clearer sense of direction.'

   
'He'd kill that bucket if you told him to. Is he here now?'

   
'I told him not to come until you were gone. Send him a report.'

   
'There'll be overlap between investigations.'

   
'No.'

   
Arkady had started to take his jacket from the butchering block. He put it down. 'What are you trying to say?'

   
As he answered, Rodionov carefully made his way across the floor. 'This is a crisis that demands forceful action. The murder of Penyagin is not just the loss of a single man, it's a blow against the body of the state. Everything we do, our office and militia, must have one overriding goal, finding and arresting the elements responsible. We will all have to make sacrifices.'

   
'What's my sacrifice?'

   
The prosecutor lifted a face lined with sympathy. The Party still turned out great actors, Arkady thought.

   
Rodionov said, 'Minin will take over the Rosen investigation, too. It will be part of this case, as you suggested. Tomorrow I want all your files and evidence on the Rosen case delivered to him - as well as a report on tonight's events, of course.'

   
'This is my case.'

   
'The debate is over. Your detective is dead. Minin is reassigned. You don't have a team and you don't have an investigation. You know, I think we've been demanding too much of you. You must have been in an emotional state after your father's funeral.'

   
'Still am.'

   
'Take a rest,' Rodionov said. As he handed Arkady his jacket from the block, a pocket rang against a tile.

   
'My God, an antique,' Rodionov said when Arkady took out the Nagan.

   
'An heirloom.'

   
'Don't point that at me.' The prosecutor backed away from the revolver.

   
'No one's pointing it at you.'

   
'Don't threaten me.'

   
'I'm not threatening you. I was just wondering. Penyagin and you were at the cemetery out of respect for . . . ' He tapped the gun on his head to remember.

   
'Asoyan. Penyagin succeeded Asoyan.' The prosecutor edged towards the door.

  
 
'Right. I never met Asoyan. I forget, just what did Asoyan die of?'

   
But the city prosecutor escaped to the blinding lights of the yard.

Chapter Thirteen

On his way into town, Arkady parked behind the apartment complex by Dynamo Stadium, where a blue militia-precinct lamp on the corner announced what looked like an all-night bar. In the street, a drunk and his wife had a domestic conversation. He said something and she slapped him. He said something else and she slapped him again. He leaned into the blows as if he agreed with her point of view. Another drunk, in good clothes lightly dusted, walked in circles as if one foot were nailed to the pavement.

   
Inside the station, the desk officer was helping to subdue a drunk who, stripped to the waist and blinded by methanol, was trying to fly, beating his tattooed arms against the wall and leading a chorus of drunks who shouted from separate cells. Passing through, Arkady showed his ID, not bothering to open it. He might be dressed in odd sizes, but in this crowd he looked pretty good. Upstairs, where all the doors were padded in grey upholstery, a bulletin board displayed photos of Afghan vets on the force. In the Lenin room - the meeting place for political reinforcement and morale - militiamen were crashed out on long tables, towels across their faces.

   
Jaak's key opened a door to a room with a linoleum floor and yellow walls. Since a precinct 'undercover' room was home to different detectives working different hours, the furniture was sparse and the decoration was anonymous: two desks facing each other at the window, four chairs, four hulking pre-war safes made of iron plate. A car poster, a soccer poster and a scene of a world's fair were taped to the wall. A corner door was open to a pissoir, a foul nosegay to the room.

   
The desks shared three phones: an outside line, an intercom and a dispatch connection to Petrovka. The drawers held old sheaves of wanted faces, car descriptions and calendars that went back ten years. Around the legs of each desk the linoleum was scarred by cigarettes.

   
Arkady sat down and lit a cigarette. He realized he had always believed that one day Jaak would decamp for Estonia, be reborn as an ardent nationalist and heroically defend the fledgling republic. He believed Jaak had the capacity to lead a different life. Instead of this. The difference between him and Jaak was not so great, dead or alive.

   
The first phone call he made was to his own office.

   
He was answered on the second ring. 'Minin here.'

   
Arkady hung up.

   
A na
ïf
might ask why Minin hadn't gone to the Lenin's Path Collective. Arkady knew from experience that there were two types of investigations: one that uncovered information, and the more traditional type that covered it up. The second was actually more difficult since it demanded someone to cover the crime scene and someone to control information in the office. As Arkady's superior, Rodionov had to be the man at the collective. Minin, hard-working Minin, upgraded Minin, would be entrusted with gathering all the evidence and dossiers that showed any connection between the martyred General Penyagin and Rudy Rosen.

   
Arkady pulled out the short list of phone numbers he had taken from Penyagin's Party book. The first he recognized as Rodionov's; the other two were Moscow numbers but were new to him. He glanced at his watch: two a.m., an hour when all good citizens ought to be home. He picked up the outside line and dialled one of the unfamiliar numbers.

   
'Yes?' A man's voice answered, calmly coming awake.

   
'I'm calling about Penyagin,' Arkady said.

   
'What about him?'

   
'He's dead.'

   
'That's terrible news.' The voice stayed well spoken, soft, calmer than before. 'Did they catch anyone?'

   
'No.'

   
There was a pause; then the voice corrected itself. 'I mean, how did he die?'

   
'Shot. At the farm.'

   
'Who am I talking to?' The very polish of the voice was unusual, Russian birch painted with foreign lacquer.

   
'There was a complication,' Arkady said.

   
'What complication?'

 
  
'A detective.'

   
'Who is this?'

   
'Don't you want to know how he died?'

   
There was a pause at the other end. Arkady could almost hear an intelligence becoming fully alert. 'I know who this is.'

   
The line went dead, but not before Arkady had recognized Max Albov’s voice, too. Even if they had only met for an hour, because it was recently and in Penyagin's company.

   
He dialled the other number, feeling like a night fisherman dropping a hook in black water to see what would bite.

   
'Hello!' This time it was a woman, wide awake, yelling over a background of television babble. She had a lisp. 'Who is it?'

   
'I'm calling about Penyagin.'

   
'Wait a second!'

   
While he waited, Arkady listened to what sounded like an American relating a tedious story interspersed by explosions and the popping of small arms.

   
'Who is this?' A man came on the line.

   
'Albov,' Arkady said. Not that he was nearly as smooth as the journalist, but he modulated his voice a bit and there was that racket at the other end. 'Penyagin's dead.'

   
There was a pause, not a silence. With a musical segue, the American in the background moved on to a different story. The small-arms fire continued though, with echoes that suggested a luxury of space.

   
'Why are you calling?'

   
Arkady said, 'There were problems.'

   
'The worst thing you can do is call. I'm surprised at a sophisticated man like you.' The voice was strong, with the radiant humour and confidence of a successful leader. 'You don't start panicking in the middle of the game.'

   
'I'm worried.'

   
There was the click of a well-hit ball, a burst of applause and enthusiastic shouts of 'Banzai!' By now Arkady could picture a bar of Marlboro colours and contented golfers. He could hear the ringing of the cash register and, in softer tones, the distant chimes of slot machines. He could also see Borya Gubenko cupping the receiver, starting to be concerned.

   
'What's done is done,' Borya said.

   
'What about the detective?'

   
'You of all people know this is not a conversation to have on the phone,' Borya said.

   
'What next?' Arkady asked.

   
It was the middle of the night now. The television's American voice had a reassuring mutter. Arkady could almost feel the campfire glow of the screen, an international sameness of news that must accompany businessmen everywhere. Once Americans were going to save Russia. Then the Germans were going to save Russia. Whoever was going to save Russia now would bring their golf clubs to Borya's, Arkady thought: he had said that the Japanese were always the last to leave. 'What do we do?' he asked again.

   
He heard the launch of another ball. Was it bouncing off one of the cut-out trees standing on the factory floor? Or sailing long and true to the grass-green canvas on the far wall?

   
'Who is this?' Borya asked, then hung up.

   
Leaving Arkady with . . . nothing. First, he had not taped the conversations. Second, what if he had? He had captured no confession, nothing that couldn't be explained by sleepiness, noise, misunderstanding, a bad connection. So what if Penyagin had their phone numbers? Albov had been introduced as a friend of the militia, and the militia protected Borya Gubenko's driving range. So what if Albov and Gubenko knew each other? They were sociable members of the New Moscow, not hermits. Arkady had proof of nothing at all except that the Rosen case had taken Jaak to a collective farm, where he was killed and was found in the same car with Penyagin. And Arkady had bungled the Rosen case. He didn't have Kim, and what evidence he did have was being seized at this moment by Minin.

   
On the other hand, Jaak might be dead, but he was not a bad detective. Arkady looked through all the drawers and under them, and then brought out Jaak's oversized key. Each undercover detective had his own safe, a locked repository of his work. He tried the key on all four ancient safes in turn, fishing for a tumbler, until the last lock yielded and the iron door swung open to the three private shelves of Jaak's life. On the lower shelf were dead files tied in red ribbon, a basement of Jaak's professional memory. On the top shelf were personal items: loose photos of a boy and a man fishing, of the same boy and a man holding a model plane, of that boy now grown into an Army uniform and recognizable as Jaak posing with a happy but self-conscious woman smoothing her apron. They stood on the steps of a dacha. Light covered Jaak's eyes, shade covered his mother's. A picture of soldiers in their tent, singing, Jaak the one with the guitar. Divorce papers, eight years old, torn apart and taped back together. A snapshot of Jaak with Julya in an earlier phase of dark hair, blurred because they were plummeting on an amusement ride, also torn and taped together.

   
On the middle shelf was a grey criminal code book stuffed with the sloppy addenda of daily changing laws: protocol forms for investigation, search, interrogation; red directory of detectives in the Moscow region; loose Makarov slugs in copper casings. There were a surveillance photo of Rudy, a mug shot of a young Kim, Polina's shots of the black market and the burned shell of Rudy's car. Also an inter-office envelope. Arkady opened it and found the German videotape he had given Jaak along with two developed stills. So Jaak had got the pictures done.

   
They were individual photographs of the woman in the beer garden. On the reverse side of one, Jaak had written, 'Identified by reliable source as "Rita", emigrated to Israel 1985.'

   
A romantic name, Rita, short for the flower, marguerite. He guessed Julya was the source. If Rita married a Jew and got out, Julya would remember her.

   
Israeli? The combination of blonde hair, black sweater and gold chain struck Arkady as a classic German style, added to a fall red mouth and line of the cheek that were pure Slav. Why wasn't she in the Jerusalem tape instead of the Munich one? Why had Arkady seen her in Rudy's car and intercepted a glance from her that had read him and his Zhiguli as a man and machine all too familiar? Why had he seen her mouth on the tape, 'I love you'?

   
The second picture was identical. On its back, Jaak had written, 'Identified by Soyuz receptionist as Mrs Boris Benz. German. Arrived 5/8, departed 8/8.' Two days ago.

   
The Soyuz Hotel was not one of Moscow's best, but it was the closest to where he and Jaak had sighted her with Rudy.

   
The outside line rang. He picked up.

   
'Who's there?' Minin demanded.

   
Arkady laid the receiver on the desk and softly left.

By now they would be watching his flat. Arkady drove to the south bank of the river, parked and walked to stay awake.

   
Moscow was beautiful at night. The other day when he was in the caf
é
with Polina, he had recited a poem by Akhmatova. 'I drink to our ruined house, to the dolour of my life, to our loneliness together; and to you I raise my glass, to lying lips that have betrayed us, to dead-cold, pitiless eyes, and to the hard realities: that the world is brutal and coarse, that God in fact has not saved us.' Polina, the romantic, had insisted that he recite it again.

   
Moscow was the ruined house, a cityscape that looked half burned at night. Yet a streetlamp showed an iron gate opened to a court of graceful lime trees around a marble lion on a pedestal. Another light, askew, shone on a church cupola, azure, studded with gold stars. As if in Moscow anything that wasn't ugly dared display itself only at night.

   
His own bitterness surprised Arkady. He had been willing to tolerate a background of meanness and corruption if he could carry out his work at a certain level of efficiency, the way a surgeon might be content with setting bones in the middle of an endless catastrophe. His own honesty became a shell for him, a way both to deny and to accept the general misrule. See the contradiction, Arkady told himself - a lie, to be concise. Still, if he'd lost Rudy and Jaak, never even caught sight of Kim and probably been an evil influence on Polina, just how good was he?

   
What did he want? What he wanted was to be far away. For years he had been patient, yet for the last week he had felt that every second was like another grain of sand rolling through his fingers, ever since he'd heard Irina's voice on the radio.