Филип Керр - Dead Meat

‘Now sit down and shut up,’ said Grushko and collected the radiometer from the worktop.

Yeroshka sat down on a case of Russian champagne and dropped his head on to his chest. Chazov placed an avuncular hand on his chef’s broad shoulders.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Take it easy.’

Nikolai hauled the fridge door open and reviewed the contents with quiet appreciation, as if he had been looking at a favourite painting.

‘Look, I’ve told you,’ said Chazov. ‘I get all my meat from a legitimate supplier.’

Grushko stepped inside the fridge and switched on the radiometer. He pointed the instrument at a carton of meat and watched the needle move from one end of the scale to the other.

‘What is that thing?’ said Chazov. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come out of there. This is all very unhygienic.’

‘It certainly is,’ said Grushko. ‘Did you know that this meat is radioactive?’

‘Radioactive?’ Chazov laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. This is your way of persuading me to give evidence against those bastards who firebombed me. You’re as bad as they are. Well I’m not falling for it — d’you hear?’

Grushko pointed to the flickering needle on the radiometer dial.

‘You might be right. Except for this. It’s a radiometer. Like a Geiger counter only more sensitive. According to this little machine you could power a small town with what’s coming off this meat of yours, Chazov. And that means this place will be closed.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘You’re right, I can’t. But when the officials from the Department of Health and the Department of Radio-biological Security get here, they will close you. Whether you’re ever allowed to reopen again depends on you telling us where this meat came from.’

Chazov shook his head.

‘You must think I came down the river on a hay barge,’ he sneered.

Grushko shrugged and then looked at his watch. He took out a bottle of orange pills and handed two to Nikolai.

‘Here — it’s time we were taking our potassium iodide tablets,’ he said and swallowed two himself.

‘What’s that for?’ Chazov asked suspiciously.

‘Potassium iodide? It stops the build-up of radioactive iodine 131 in the thyroid gland,’ said Grushko. ‘That’s the most sensitive human organ where radiation is concerned. Just standing next to this meat is hazardous.’

Chazov frowned and then felt at his throat.

‘God forbid that anyone should actually eat any,’ added Nikolai.

Chazov’s hand descended to his stomach. He rubbed it uncomfortably and then gulped.

‘I don’t feel too good,’ he said, eyeing the meat in his fridge with suspicion. ‘Look, I’m getting out of here.’

Nikolai stood in his way.

‘Not so fast,’ he said.

Grushko smiled and pointed the radiometer at Chazov’s throat suggestively. He looked at the dial and shook his head grimly.

‘What is it?’ said Chazov. ‘What’s it say? Please, you’ve got to let me have some of those tablets.’

Grushko held the bottle of orange pills in front of Chazov’s eyes.

‘These?’ he said. ‘They’re very expensive. And I don’t know that there’s enough for you.’

Chazov snatched desperately at the pills and found his hand held in Nikolai’s big paw.

‘Well, maybe,’ said Grushko, ‘but not until you’ve told us where all your meat comes from.’

‘All right, all right.’ Chazov sighed exhaustedly. ‘His name is Volodimir Khmara. He comes in about once a week and sells me as much meat as I want. Mutton, pork, but mostly beef. A hundred roubles a kilo. All of it top-grade too. Or at least I thought it was.’ He rolled his eyes at Grushko. ‘Now will you give me those pills?’

‘And where does he get it, this Volodimir Khmara?’

‘There’s a consignment, from southern Byelorussia, a couple of times a month. Khmara’s part of a Cossack mob from Kiev. About three months ago they hijacked a whole load of EC food-aid and they’ve been selling it here and in Moscow.’

Grushko’s eyes met Nikolai’s. ‘I’ve got this horrible idea about how they’re bringing it into Petersburg,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ said Nikolai.

‘Now give me some tablets,’ groaned Chazov. ‘Please.’

‘After you’ve made a statement down at the Big House,’ said Grushko. He handed Nikolai the bottle. ‘And while you’re at it, you can make a statement about those Georgians too. That should tidy things up nicely.’

Nikolai glanced at the bottle, pocketed it and then leaned towards Grushko.

‘What are they?’ he murmured.

‘Indigestion tablets,’ said Grushko. ‘Tanya gets them from the hospital for me.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘Well, there’s not much demand for them. Not these days. Not unless you’re a cop.’

He grinned amiably.

Take care of Chazov, will you?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I think I’ll pay another little visit to Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit.’

Grushko’s journey to Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit took him south-west through Leninsky Region and along Gaza Prospekt, past Petersburg’s 8th Cold Store. Grushko had often driven by it and seen lorries from the Uryupin meat-processing plant unloading tons of meat under the close supervision of the local militia: without this security, much of the meat would simply have disappeared. The State Meat Board was the only wholesale meat consumer in the country, supplying all the state meat markets and, seeing the Uryupin truck, it occurred to Grushko that while he had Dr Sobchak’s radiometer it would be a good idea if he checked the meat in one of the city’s main cold stores for signs of radioactive contamination. The manager of the 8th Cold Store, Oleg Pryakhin, was quite used to the ingenious methods used by people trying to get their hands on the meat in his refrigerators, not to mention the many threats and bribes he had been offered. His predecessor had once sabotaged the cold-store generator in order to sell a consignment of ‘spoiled’ smoked sausage on the local black market. So he listened to Grushko’s strange request without much surprise, although he had his doubts. At the same time he saw no particular harm in letting him use the radiometer, if that was what it was. But then it was not as if he would be allowing the grey-haired Colonel of Internal Affairs to remove any meat from the premises. And if there was something wrong with it then he would pass the problem on to the food and light-industry department in the Petersburg People’s Inspectorate and let them sort it out.

But he was a little surprised, even disappointed when, having waved his little machine over a one-ton delivery of Doctor’s Salami, the colonel told him that there was nothing at all the matter with it.

Grushko drove along the road he had taken to Dr Sobchak’s dacha near Lomonosov. This was turning into quite a day. But at least now he was getting somewhere. And he was almost looking forward to seeing the look on Gidaspov’s face when he told him about the use to which the Mafia was putting his expensive foreign trucks.

When he arrived at ASA, Gidaspov looked pained to see him again. Well, Grushko was used to that.

‘I did say I’d call,’ said Gidaspov, ‘when the convoy got back. They’re still en route .’

‘I wonder if I might take a closer look at Tolya’s truck, sir,’ he said.

Gidaspov led him out to where the huge vehicle was parked on the dacha’s tennis courts.

‘Here she is,’ he said proudly. ‘Originally built for the British army, it’s an eight-tonne wheel chassis with an on-board crane to lift the barrels of waste into the container. The interior is part-refrigerated to help keep them cool. The armoured louvres on the windscreen are to prevent anyone taking a shot at the driver in the event of a terrorist attack.’