Stuart Kaminsky - Hard Currency

“The Washtub is in Cuba?” asked Anatoli Xeromen. He sat on a park bench looking up at two policemen.

Anatoli had chosen the location for their meeting. On the weekends, Izmailovo Park, five times the size of New York’s Central Park, was the site of a massive market, hundreds of vendors trading goods for rubles and hard currency, goods that had only been dealt with underground a year ago. Caviar, hubcaps, army uniforms, dirty books, automobile parts. The Capones roamed the park on weekends picking up protection money, selling what they had stolen.

Now, though it was not the weekend, Anatoli sat where people would be sure to see him and the two huge bodyguards behind him, young men wearing sunglasses in spite of the overcast day and cold air, one with blue hair, the other with black-black hair. Anatoli himself wore jeans and a pullover long-sleeved soccer shirt of red and green that had the word “Italy” embossed on it in white letters.

Babushkas with strollers, old men carrying sacks and chess boxes, bundled children running for the playground or home passed behind them on the path. Karpo and Tkach had their backs to the path but Anatoli watched the passing parade as he carried on the conversation. Occasionally he would smile as if something seemed amusing.

“He is in Cuba,” Karpo confirmed. “We are authorized in his name to ask your assistance.”

“To do what?”

“Help us catch the man who killed Iliana Ivanova,” said Karpo.

“Her name was Yellow Angel,” Anatoli said.

“Yellow Angel,” Karpo conceded.

Tkach sniffled, wiped his nose, and sneezed.

“What has he got?” Anatoli asked, pointing at Tkach. “If he has something, I want him to stay away from me. AIDS, something like that.”

It had been reported but not confirmed that Anatoli required that all Capones be periodically tested for AIDS. It had also been reported that anyone found to have the virus would be expelled from the gang. It had also been reported that a carrier who concealed his disease was actually beaten to death and thrown in the Moscow River.

“I have a cold,” said Sasha. “A cold. That’s all.”

“Because if you have …” Anatoli began.

“It’s a damn cold,” Sasha shouted, taking a step toward the bench.

Anatoli didn’t move. His bodyguards reached back to where, both Karpo and Tkach were sure, they had weapons in their belts.

Karpo held up his right hand and motioned for Tkach to step back. Tkach wiped his nose again, pocketed the rumpled handkerchief, and stepped back reluctantly.

“I don’t like sick people,” said Anatoli. “We’ve got our own doctor. I don’t like sick people.”

“The person who killed Yellow Angel is sick,” said Karpo.

“I didn’t like him even when I thought he wasn’t sick,” said Anatoli. “What do you want?”

Karpo told him.

“And what do I get for this?”

“The killer of the girl is caught. Your people are safe from him.”

“And,” said Anatoli, “your bosses owe me. You owe me.

“No,” said Karpo emphatically. “We owe you nothing. My superiors will not even be told of your assistance.”

Anatoli laughed and looked back at his two bodyguards. They did not laugh.

It struck Tkach that the strutting little animal before them was imitating someone, a movie star or a television actor, but the imitation was so bad that he couldn’t tell who it was.

“You could have lied to me,” Anatoli said to Karpo.

“No, I could not,” replied Karpo.

“All right,” said Anatoli. “You’re honest with me. I’m honest with you. We do this and you owe us. Maybe one favor. Maybe two.”

“None,” said Karpo.

It was Sasha’s turn to smile at Anatoli, who met his eyes with hatred. These two policemen were fools. They should have known better than to turn him down in front of his bodyguards. Anatoli had a reputation. The problem was that he wanted to get Tahpor. He wanted to have the man in front of him begging for his life. He wanted to kill him before a gathering of Capones.

“We’ll do it,” he said. “What do you need and when?”

Karpo outlined his plan and was greeted with nods of approval.

“Then we are agreed,” said Karpo.

“We’ll use two-way radios,” said Anatoli.

“We do not have radios which can be assigned to you,” Karpo said.

“We have our own,” said Anatoli with a smile. “And ours are better than yours. Japanese.”

“No two-way radios,” said Karpo. “He would notice. I expect him to check very carefully before he acts. I want him led to Sasha Tkach and only to Sasha Tkach.”

Anatoli nodded.

“We use telephones,” he agreed. “Tour number?”

Karpo stepped forward and handed Anatoli a card on which he had written the number of the Metro station phone where he would be stationed. Anatoli glanced at the card and put it in his shirt pocket.

“We’ll lead him to your friend,” said Anatoli. He rose and looked at Tkach. “It’s our duty as good citizens.”

He suddenly leaped over the bench and walked between the two bodyguards, who kept their eyes on Karpo and Tkach as they backed away. When the trio had disappeared into the bushes, Tkach said, “Now we make deals with killers. One killer becomes better than the other. Then we find another better killer to kill this one.”

Karpo nodded and walked past Tkach to the path. There was no denying what Tkach had said, but Karpo believed that what they had just done was no different from what Colonel Snitkonoy had done the day before. The colonel had made a pact with the killers of the foreign minister of an allied country.

Expediency, he thought.

Tkach, his voice weak with congestion, repeated, “Expediency?”

Karpo had been unaware that he had spoken aloud. The revelation troubled him.

“Now we justify ourselves by saying we can deal with murderers because it is expedient?” rasped Tkach.

“It appears so,” said Karpo. As they walked, people parted in front of them to avoid the gaunt specter and the obviously ill young man.

“We have four hours. I’m taking you to see a doctor.”

Tkach grew suddenly angry, but he also felt something rattle in his chest and a surge of bile rise to his mouth. He said nothing more and followed Karpo toward the long night.

Porfiry Petrovich and Elena Timofeyeva ate a late breakfast in the main-floor restaurant of the El Presidente. The breakfast consisted of oranges, warm rolls, something that tasted like butter, almost black coffee, and silence. They were the only customers. Others had eaten and departed long ago. On a few white-tableclothed tables rested dirty plates and crumbs.

Rostnikov told her about his encounters of the night before and then asked her for her report. She shook her head as if to clear away annoying hair and then told him. Her account ended with the statement that she had been driven back to the hotel and had gone to bed.

“If you do not mind, Inspector,” she said when it was clear that they were finished, “I’d like to remain here and prepare my notes.”

Rostnikov, who had partly risen from his chair, looked at her. She made an effort to meet his eyes.

“I may need you, Elena Timofeyeva,” he said. “I don’t want anyone speaking Spanish in front of me today, at least not speaking it in the belief that I do not understand through you.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Elena, is there something you wish to tell me?”

“No, why?”

He shrugged and said nothing. Together they walked out of the restaurant and into the lobby. There among others were the haggard KGB shadow and the little journalist Antonio Rodriguez.

Rostnikov guided Elena to the door as the little man with the thick glasses leaped forward to intercept them.