Stuart Kaminsky - A Whisper to the Living

“Medivkin, you are a fool,” said Iosef.

“We might have been too late,” said Ivan.

Zelach stepped forward to put handcuffs on Albina Babinski, who held out her wrists dutifully and said, “My wrist is bleeding.”

“We will fix it,” said Zelach.

“I would not have shot her, you know, but when he came rushing at me-”

“No, I do not know,” said Zelach, helping the woman to her feet.

Vera and Iosef knelt at Ivan’s side. There was no point in trying to help him to his feet. He was far too big and solid.

Iosef had his cell phone out and called for an ambulance.

“Do not die,” said Vera. “I will not forgive you if you die.”

“I will not die,” said Ivan.

Ivan, his eyelids now very heavy, considered the likelihood of his own demise and gave himself odds of five to two in favor of survival.

Iris Templetonwas packed and ready to go less than an hour after the attack by the two men. Elena stood at the door watching her.

“You have what you need?” asked Elena.

“More than enough,” said Iris, surveying her closed suitcase.

She had given her statement to two detectives, one in a leather jacket and the other in a zippered jacket that threatened to burst under the pressure of the man’s distinct belly. Even before the two detectives, who were not from the Office of Special Investigations, released her, Iris had begun writing the story in her head. It would be in four parts. First, the prostitution ring in Moscow; second, the murders of the prostitutes and the pimp; third, the attack on her own life by Pavel Petrov’s men; and fourth, the full exposé of Petrov himself.

The interviews with the prostitutes were on the miniature recorder that now rested in her suitcase, along with the recording of Pavel’s confession of murder. She did not want it or the tape she had purchased from Tyrone to be confiscated at the airport. Most of all she did not want Petrov to make another attempt on her life.

“I am ready,” she announced.

“You will wish to see Inspector Tkach?” asked Elena.

“Not necessarily.”

“I see.”

“Do you? I think you see a cold-hearted professional woman who has a great story and has used a handsome Russian policeman for fun and profit.”

“Used?”

“As he used me for refuge from a past he chose not to disclose.”

The door opened and the two detectives to whom Elena and Iris had given their report on what had taken place reentered the hotel room.

The one in the leather jacket wore his thick dark hair brushed back. He wore a smile that suggested he found the world and its vagaries amusing.

“We will have to search your suitcase,” the one in the leather jacket said.

“Why?”

“Orders,” said the man as the other detective, the one with the belly, moved to the bed and began to go through it.

“Be careful with that please,” said Iris.

Elena and Iris knew full well what the two men were looking for. Word had somehow gotten to them. Their orders were clear: find the tape.

They took only minutes to find the miniature tape recorder and the tape inside. They were tucked into the suitcase lining. The detective with the belly began to play the tape and immediately knew it was what he was looking for.

“We must take this,” said the detective in the leather jacket. “It will be returned to you.”

“I am sure it will,” said Iris.

“We must also inspect your person,” said leather jacket.

“I can do that,” said Elena, stepping forward.

Leather jacket hesitated, a hand cupping his chin, and then said, “I will have to do that myself.”

“I protest,” said Iris.

“I understand,” said the detective as his hands went over her body from neck to toes.

When he finished, he stood.

“Have a safe trip back to England,” said leather jacket. “And come back soon.”

“Thank you,” said Iris, trying to control her anger as the men left the hotel room.

She checked her watch as she put her clothes back in the suitcases. “They were neater than I expected.”

“They took your tape,” said Elena.

“A copy rests uncomfortably wrapped in tissue between my legs, where I hoped that I would not be touched. There, I am ready to go.”

Sasha hadshaved hurriedly and managed to nick himself twice, small nicks, one just under his nose, the other on his neck. He was at Petrovka looking for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. When Sasha reached the door of the space shared by the detectives of the Office of Special Investigations, he was startled to see Tyrone, Sergei Bresnechov, coming down the stairs.

Sasha and Elena’s plan had been to find Rostnikov and suggest that he put the boy who called himself Tyrone into seclusion to protect him from Pavel Petrov. Sasha crossed the hall quickly to the Chief Inspector’s office, knocked, got no reply, and entered to a sight that made his knees very weak and his stomach threaten to surrender.

There sat his mother and his wife.

“What?” he asked.

“We are here to see Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” said Lydia.

“Why?”

“To determine if you merit yet another chance,” said Sasha’s mother.

Maya sat, hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were an unwelcome trespasser.

“Go away,” said Lydia, sweeping him away with her arm.

A dazed Sasha Tkach backed out of the office unsure of whether he had witnessed reality or a hazy dream. He considered opening the door again but decided to go across the hall to his desk.

Could it be true? Has my mother pulled a plum from the pie?

Pavel Petrov’soffice at Gasprom was impressive. It was meant to be. Colonel Igor Yaklovev, however, was unimpressed.

Both men wanted, lived for, power, but the Yak was content with a reserved power.

Petrov wanted those who came in contact with him and heard of him to think in terms of ruthless power. The Yak wanted few to hear of him and most to think of him not at all.

And finally, Pavel Petrov was a violent pimp and a murderer. Igor Yaklovev was definitely not violent, and if he had caused a death or two in his career, it was just part of the job.

Most visitors to Petrov’s office were intimidated by its size, the awards on the walls, the massive antique desk, and the man behind it.

“Please sit,” said Petrov.

It was not the Yak’s wish to leave his office except on very rare occasions to dine, lunch or dinner, at a restaurant, seated at a quiet table to the side, from which he could watch the people at middle levels of power. This was sufficient public exposure.

The Yak sat, expressionless, across from the smiling, confident Petrov, who said, “You are admiring my desk.”

“Yes.”

“Following the Revolution the desk was taken from the office of the head of the personal guard of the Tsar himself. For sixty years it was forgotten in the office of a pompous notary. And then one day a collector of such pieces told an acquaintance of mine who owed me more than just a favor. And within a day, the son of the now-dead notary, after a very small payment and a few minutes of persuasion, sold the desk to me.”

Petrov lovingly ran the palm of his left hand across the shining desk.

They were a study in contrasts. Pavel Petrov was tall, definitely handsome, with well-groomed black hair, almost perfect skin, and white teeth. He was a presence with which to be reckoned. Igor Yaklovev in mufti was a most unimpressive presence. He was five-foot-six, lean, pale. Yes , Petrov decided, the man does look like Lenin.

“It is yours,” said Petrov, patting the table as if it were a favorite pet. “I give it to you.”