The Red Horseman (21 page)

Out on the street Yocke carefully wrote down
the names as Gregor spelled them in English. The
address was merely a street. “Do you know this
street?”

“Yes. Off Arbat.”

He had it! A sure-fire page one barn
burner that implicated the KGB in the murders of
Communist ultranationalist Yegor Kolokoltsev
and his henchmen! He jabbed his fist in the air and let
out an exultant shout.

The story would be picked up by the wire
services and papers that reprinted Post stories and
run worldwide. By Jack Yocke. Send the best,
fire the rest!

He ignored the staring pedestrians and did a little
hotdamn shuffle.

He had it all right, but first he had to write it.
And if these KGB Commie assholes got a whiff
of what was going down, he would write it ten years from
now when he got out of the gulag in the middle of the
Siberian winter.

He dove into the passenger seat of the Lada.
“Back to the hotel, James, and don’t spare either
of your beasts.”

Up in his room he packed the laptop in its
padded case and confirmed that he had his passport and
travel papers.

He added a change of underwear to the case and his
toothbrush and razor.

He decided an extra pair of socks wouldn’t
hurt and stuffed them in.

Then he zipped the case closed and stood staring
at the rest of his stuff, taking inventory. His
wallet and credit cards were in his pocket. He had
a couple hundred on him. The rest of his cash and
travelers checks were in the hotel safe;
they could stay there.

He made sure his two suitcases were
unlocked. If and when those guys came to look, he
didn’t want them breaking the locks.

He looked at his watch. Ten minutes before
two. He had had no lunch.

He wasn’t hungry. Too excited.

He rode down in the elevator with a smile on
his face.

He even sang a few bars to himself in the
mirror, a little James Brown: “I feel good,
da da dada dada da, like I knew I would, da
da dada dada da.”

Gregor unlocked the trunk and Yocke laid
the computer on top of a pile of engine parts and fan
belts.

“We gotta go find these three KGB guys and
see if they’ll finger Demodov.gregor sat behind
the wheel and stared at him. “Then hinsky what? Will you
want to go see Demodov? In Dzerz Square?”

“I’ll just call him, or try to anyway.
He’ll deny everything. Not worth the wear and tear on
your car.”

Idiot.

“His denial in the last paragraph of the
story will be the icing on the cake. Every last living
soul will know he’s guilty as hell.”

“Idiot,” Gregor repeated.

“Hey, this is the Washington Post, not the
Slobovia Gazette. We always run the
denials. About one time in a hundred the asshole
is telling the truth, then we’re covered.

The lawyers like it like that.”

Gregor put both hands on the wheel and sat
staring stonily ahead.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

“I don’t know what hole you will dive into when the
story is printed, but I live here. I don’t have
any holes.”

“I told you I would talk to my editor about a
raise. I meant that.”

Gregor snorted.

“What are they going to do to you? Is this your fault?

Are you a reporter? You just drove me around and
translated, for Christ’s sake! Yeah, they may
sweat you a little, and you can tell them everything. You have
absolutely nothing to hide or apologize for.

You’re an interpreter! Then what? They’ll let
you go. You know that and I know that.

The world has changed. Joe Stalin is
rotting in some hole in the ground.”

Gregor started the car and put it in motion. “I
wish I were driving a taxi in Brooklyn with my
wife’s cousin.”

It took an hour and a half to find the only
address they had, one for a KGB agent named Ivan
Zvezdni. His apartment was on the top floor of a
ten-story building and they had to walk up. The
smell of grease and dirt and cabbage hung like a
miasma in the crumbling concrete stairwell.

The woman who opened the door was in tears.
Gregor had barely gotten out Yocke’s identity
and profession when she began to wail. “They took
him away. Just minutes ago, Gregor muttered
to Yocke. “Men from the public prosecutor’s
office.

Yocke eyed the only soft chair and eased himself
into it.

He wasn’t leaving until he had it in
spades.

It took half an hour to get the whole story,
but it was worth it. Two mornings ago Zvezdni
received a telephone call from Nikolai Demodov
ordering him to go to police headquarters and tell the
chief to pull the officers out of Soviet
Square. Zvezdni knew it was Demodov because he
knew his voice. Demodov specialized in
political matters.

Although Demodov didn’t explain the order,
Zvezdni told his wife that the boss probably
didn’t want the police presence tarring the Old
Guard with the wrath that Kolokoltsev’s message
usually brought forth from Yeltsin’s aides,
especially since Yeltsin’s people had denied
Kolokoltsev a rally permit. Mrs. Zvezdni
didn’t pretend to understand any of it, and she claimed
her husband didn’t. Ivan was a good officer, a
loyal servant of the state. He always did as he was
told, she said.

Whatever Ivan Zvezdni thought of Demodov’s
reasons, he obeyed orders this time too. He
did, however, take two other agents along
to protect himself. Mrs. Zvezdni named them. Now
he was under arrest. For doing his duty. For obeying
orders. Life was just not fair. Mrs. Zvezdni
was reduced to silent tears.

It was damn thin, Yocke thought, but looking at
Mrs. Zvezdni he bought it. Well, if you were a
KGB agent and your boss called and gave you an
order, wouldn’t you obey it?

The apartment was crowded but neat. There was no
refrigerator. The family’s food supply sat
on a sideboard under a window. The furniture was
old, scarred and spotlessly clean. The carpet was
clean and threadbare.

“Make sure,” Yocke told Gregor, “that
she understands I write for an American
newspaper.”

“She knows that. She does not care.”

He wanted to touch her arm, pat her head, but he
refrained. She was using a scrap of white cloth
to wipe her tears. “Tell her I am sorry,”
he said.

He was going to have to work fast. This story was too
hot to wait. On the way to the car he told
Gregor, “Find a phone.” Gregor didn’t
protest.

Gregor made the call to the KGB. After
repeated waits and spurts of Russian, he
motioned to Yocke and handed him the receiver. They were standing
at a pay phone on a sidewalk somewhere near
Arbat Street. The phone was mounted on a wall and
had a little half booth arranged around it.

“Hello. My name is Jack Yocke. I’m
a reporter for the Washington Post.”

The voice on the other end said “wait” in a
heavy accent. At least it sounded like “wait.”

Another minute passed before a guttural voice
pronounced a name: “Demodov.”

“Mr. Demodov, do you speak English?”

“Yes. “My name is Jack Yocke. I’m a
reporter for the Washington Post.

We have a story that we are going to run that says that
three National Security agents went to police
headquarters this past Tuesday and asked the police
chief to pull the police out of Soviet Square.
The chief complied and Yegor Kolokoltsev was
murdered minutes later. According to our information, you were the
person who sent them to police headquarters. Do you
wish to comment?”

Silence. Finally the voice again. “I did not do
that.”

Yocke scribbled the answer in his private
shorthand.

“Have you been questioned by the public prosecutor about
this matter?”

“No.

“Are you aware that Ivan Zvezdni, one of your
subordihates, was arrested by men from the public
prosecutor’s office just about an hour
ago?”

“No. How do you know all this?”

“Do you wish to make any other comment about this
story?”

“I know nothing about it. What more can I say?”
And the connection broke.

Yocke replaced the phone on the hook and
turned to Gregor.

“We got it. He denies everything.”

ADMIRAL GRAFTON, THIS IS JACK
YOCKE. I’VE GOT A

little problem and need your help.”

“What kind of problem?” The tone of the
admiral’s voice on the telephone made it
clear that he didn’t have time for a social call.

“It’s a long story, sir, and I’d like to tell
it to you in person.”

“I’m really swamped right now. Where are you?”

“Down here in the little reception office in front
of the embassy compound.”

Grafton sighed. “Okay. I’ll send Toad
down.”

“Thanks.”

Yocke hung up the telephone and went back
outside.

Gregor was sitting in the car, double-parked in the
street.

The reporter bent down so he could talk through the
passenger window.

“I’ll need the computer out of the trunk.”

Gregor killed the engine and climbed out. He
opened the trunk without a word and let Yocke reach in
and get the computer case. “So it’s good-bye then.”

“You’re still on the payroll, Gregor. And I
will talk to the editor about that raise.”

Gregor closed the trunk, locked it, then got
back into the car. Yocke pulled a roll of bills
out of his pocket and peeled off five twenties.

He stood by the driver’s door. “Here.

This is for you.”

Gregor stared up at him. He tried to smile
but it didn’t come out that way. “No.”

“This isn’t charity, Gregor. You’ve earned it.
Feed your family.”

The Russian started the car and put it in gear.
Yocke tossed the bills in his lap as the car got
under way. “I’ll call you,” he shouted.

He adjusted the strap of the computer bag and watched
the Lada go down the street trailing a thin blue
cloud of exhaust fumes. After it
disappeared from sight he turned toward the embassy
gate. Toad Tarkington was standing there watching him.

“What have you been into this time?”

Yocke glanced at the gate guard, a Moscow
policeman wearing the usual gray uniform. He
went past him into the reception office and turned
to face Tarkington.

“The KGB was waiting for me at my hotel.”

Toad snorted. “You sure?”

“We drove by. There were a dozen police cars
out front, a dozen or so guys in dark suits
around the entrance. Three or four at every other door.
It looked like Also Capone’s garden party. I
tripped over a hornet’s nest.”

Toad snorted. “Kicked it over, you mean.
Then you come charging over to the Hotel Grafton with
your hair on fire and a rat in your mouth.”

“Dammit, Toad, I’ve got to write this
story and file it.”

“Story on what?”

“The Soviet Square killings.”

Toad pursed his lips as he examined
Yocke’s face. “Better come up and tell it to the
admiral,” he said, and made a hi sign to the
receptionist behind the safety glass. After
she pushed her button Toad opened the door for the
reporter.

Jake Grafton was surrounded by computer
printouts and maps. He was curt. “Let’s hear
it.”

So Toad told it. Quickly and concisely. When
he had completed his recitation the admiral glanced
at Tarkington, who was leaning back against the wall with
his eyebrows up as far as they would go.

“So the KGB set up their stooge,
Kolts-something,” the admiral said.

“Why?”

“Well, there are several possible reasons why
they might have done it, like-was

“You’re going to write this story without knowing why they
did it?”

“Yep.” Yocke glanced at his watch. “It’ll
run on tomorrow’s front page.” Seeing the look on
Grafton’s face, the reporter went on:
“Gimme a break, Admiral. If we had
waited to get Lee Harvey Oswald’s reasons
before we reported Kennedy’s assassination, we’d still
be waiting.”

“That’s a real argument stopper, but it’s hardly
germane to this case.”

“Facts are facts.”

“If you’ve got any.”

Jack Yocke’s face flushed. “Jesus!
You’re worse than my editor.”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious. If I were a
reporter I’d want it in spades before I accused
someone of murder.

But you’re the guy they pay the big bucks.”
Grafton cleared his throat while Jack Yocke
figured out how to handle his face.

When the reporter spoke his voice was carefully
under control. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything.
I’ve got a story about how the police were pulled
out of that square and in my professional opinion,
it’s solid.

I– He stopped speaking because Jake Grafton
had waved his hand, cutting him off.

The admiral toyed with a pen, clicking the point in
and out a few times.

“Yeltsin is going to be one happy man when he
hears about this,” he said finally.

“I suppose.”

Toad cleared his throat. “How about describing
this woman you met in the bar.”

“Now wait a minute. It doesn’t
really matter who she is. She merely gave me a
tip and I verified it by an independent investigation.

Yocke hadn’t given the woman’s motives a
thought and Toad’s question irritated him. In America
people routinely sought out reporters to put them onto a
story. Reporters knew these people were driven by a
variety of motives, including revenge. Yet if
the story checked out as true and newsworthy, the
tipster’s motives didn’t really matter. And
Jack Yocke knew damn well he had latched
onto a big, true story. A huge story. The
dimensions of it slightly awed him. And it was
solid. There was no way in hell those people today were
acting, feeding him a line. After questioning a few thousand
people, he knew the truth when he heard it.

If he heard it. And by God, today he had heard
it.

The problem was Tarkington. He was a good man, but
at times he was tough to swallow. Jack Yocke
took a deep breath and added, “The public
prosecutor has the three KGB agents who went
to the police station locked up right now. They want
to jug me.”