Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

They rode in silence until they reached their destination. The Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts was across the street from the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. Its golden dome towered over the Moskva River.

‘A nice balance,’ she commented.

‘What do you mean?’ Borovsky said.

‘Well, sir, one building is full of human outpouring, the other a house of solace.’

He laughed. ‘Sergeant, those descriptions could apply to either one equally.’

‘I know that, sir.’ She grinned as she pulled to the curb.

He looked at her with admiration. ‘Well done.’

Now it was his turn to play catch-up.

They stepped out in unison, but Borovsky waited before moving toward the museum. Anna followed his eyes and sensed a bit of the patriotic pride he must have been feeling when taking in its exterior. It looked like a temple to culture on a high podium.

Borovsky glanced over to see her staring, and tapped her upper arm with the back of his hand. When she looked over, he pointed and said, ‘Copied from the Erechtheion on the Acropolis. Ionic colonnade. Finished in 1912. Just in time for World War One, and everything that followed. Originally called the Alexander the Third Museum, then the State Museum of Fine Art. Our great poet Alexander Pushkin died five years later, and they added his name.’

The colonel pointed left and then right. ‘Three buildings. Two atrium courtyards. Glass roof lets the sunlight in.’

‘It’s impressive. I’m ashamed I haven’t visited before now.’

He shrugged, and they started walking toward the steps. ‘Who has time in this modern age, what with gangs, the black market, the mafia, and a four-year-old daughter?’

Anna stopped in place, but she caught up to Borovsky, who kept on walking, near the museum’s magnificent entrance.

He glanced at her. ‘Do you really think I would ask you to assist me without checking your records?’

‘No, sir,’ she fibbed. That meant he knew about her marriage and divorce as well. She felt both naked and protected at the same time, exposed to his scrutiny but allowed into his circle.

‘Alma was one of the reasons I asked for you,’ he explained. ‘You were eminently qualified, of course, but so are many persons of your rank and station. The younger generation is the main hope of Russia’s future. I want someone who has a reason to preserve that future and work to make it better.’

Anna was once again surprised by this man. Her heart swelled. Here was a real patriot, not one who used platitudes to control others.

He looked at her. ‘You did not put your daughter in a child care center. You had your mother move in. I like that. I like it very much.’

Then they were inside.

Anna put her personal thoughts aside and focused on the building. The clean opulence impressed her. It was large, light, and airy, with a mix of clean colors and expertly designed moods.

Borovsky pointed left. ‘Art of Ancient Egypt.’ He pointed right. ‘Art of Germany and the Netherlands in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.’ He pointed ahead of them. ‘Italian art from the thirteenth century, flanked by the Greek courtyard and Italian courtyard.’

‘Come here often?’ Anna asked with a smile. She felt as if a level of trust and familiarity had been achieved.

Borovsky gave her an amused look. ‘You could say that.’

The sentries and staff didn’t ask for any pass, ticket, or donation. Their uniforms alone would have ensured that, but Anna got the more-than-distinct impression that his face was familiar to them.

‘The core of the museum is Moscow University’s collection of antiquities,’ he said. They had circumvented the galleries and reached a hall of clean, crisp, new offices. He pointed at a teak and glass door.

COINS AND MEDALS DEPARTMENT, she read to herself as Borovsky twisted the doorknob.

‘Viktor!’ was the first thing she heard as he entered before her. And the first thing she saw was a young, straight-haired woman in a simple sweater and skirt erupt from her desk and practically leap into an embrace with the colonel.

He smiled back at Anna and made a ‘what can I do?’ face.

The young woman gripped his shoulders, pulled back to arm’s length, and took a long, lingering look at him. ‘Viktor Stanislav Borovsky! Why didn’t you warn us you were going to visit?’

‘ Warn? Am I a threat?’

‘You are!’ the woman continued, speaking to Anna, not the colonel. ‘He is a storm, a veritable cyclone.’

‘She is referring to one of those hobbies I alluded to,’ he said, half turning to Anna with mild embarrassment. ‘There is nothing — nothing -’

‘Romantic? Lord Jesus across the street!’ the curator laughed. ‘No, Viktor comes in with questions, more questions, then questions inspired by the answers to those questions. Mostly it’s about the gold of Troy. We have it here,’ the woman boasted. ‘Do you know its discoverer, Heinrich Schliemann? He was quite the character!’

Borovsky changed the subject. ‘Natalia, this is Sergeant Anna Rusinko.’

‘How rude of me!’ The young woman collected herself and offered her hand to Anna. ‘It’s just that we don’t see him as much as we used to. You understand.’

‘Much more now than I did before,’ Anna answered with a smile.

‘Where’s Olga?’ he asked.

‘Where she always is,’ she answered, sweeping her arm toward a door at the end of a row of light brown coin drawers.

Borovsky smiled broadly and hurried by. Anna followed, trying to interpret Natalia’s quiet smile as she went back to work. A young subordinate worker here who wasn’t romantically involved with Borovsky? Anna guessed he had helped her with something personal. She wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Perhaps her brother needed help getting into the police force? Or he got into trouble and needed help getting out?

She still didn’t understand Borovsky.

But this was a start.

Borovsky and Anna entered the room beyond the row of drawers. It was dark, but it wasn’t a menacing dark. It was welcoming. The only illumination came from a bright light attached to a large magnifying glass on a flexible pole. Behind it was what appeared to be a classic crone from a folk tale. She was lanky, gray-haired, and dressed in a bulky dark brown sweater and wool skirt that looked like they were spun from the fibers of tree bark.

‘Close that door!’ she commanded, eyes intent on the glass and what it was magnifying. Borovsky hastily ushered Anna in and closed the door behind them. ‘What do you want?’

‘What do I ever want?’ Borovsky answered. ‘Your help.’

Anna expected the response that he got.

‘Viktor?’ the woman said. ‘Viktor, is that you? Viktor!’

The crone was not much taller standing than she had been sitting. She came forward quickly and then there were more hugs.

Anna got her bearings after a second round of introductions. Olga Uritski turned on the bright overhead lights, drew up three stools, and gave them each a small glass cup of sbiten — the popular Russian drink of blackberry jam, honey, water, and spices.

After the urgency Borovsky had expressed to get in here, she was surprised to see him take his time now. Or rather, be forced to take his time. Then she understood the politics: unlike Natalia, this woman required nurturing. It was the difference between the gatekeeper and the one who possessed what you really needed.

There was general chatter as they sat around a large, square table covered in felt, in the center of a large, square room. All four walls were lined with long wooden drawers designed to safeguard coins. The table had several examining devices attached to it, as well as many drawers of its own. Anna did her best to soak it all up.