Stuart Kaminsky - A Whisper to the Living

On the belt came Iris Templeton’s green bag once more, but somehow it had lost the thin blue ribbon attached to the pull-up handle. She pulled it down. There was no longer a name tag on it.

She took it down and wheeled it out in search of Richard Neatly’s minuscule blue German car, and as she did so she walked within a few feet of the reclining woman and the pale man.

When Iris was out of sight, the pale man leaned close to the woman and in Russian said, “You are not seriously injured, Christiana Davidonya.”

Christiana, Pavel Petrov’s assistant, had felt a sudden sharp jab to her kidney just as she had the handle of the green canvas bag in her hand. The jab had taken her breath. She had managed to glance at the pale man who supported her to the bank of aluminum and leather.

Her assignment had been simple: switch the bags. She had failed. Christiana had watched in pain as Iris Templeton wheeled past her, the tape deep inside the canvas bag.

There would be no follow-up attempt. It was too late. Even now Christiana anticipated Pavel Petrov’s rage and imagined that it might be taken out on her.

“We goback on the same flight,” Karpo said. “Perhaps we can sit together.”

Christiana gasped from the pain in her lower back and decided she would be in Moscow just long enough to pack, get to the money she had saved, pick up the passport in another name hidden in the bottom of a double boiler in her apartment, and make the next airplane connection to Brazil.

The planned attack on the English journalist in the Frankfurt airport had been called off by Christiana because it had proved to be too dangerous. She was sure Pavel would have tried it, probably would have succeeded in killing Iris Templeton, but Pavel had not been there. Christiana had decided it would be better to face his extreme displeasure than to be caught by the German police. Pavel liked taking chances. She did not.

Pavel Petrov was not going to survive.

She was.

On the flight to São Paulo, after a nap she would study Portuguese.

The pale black-suited man who now reminded her of a vampire guided her firmly in the direction of the ticket counter. She went quite willingly.

As soonas Neatly dropped her at her apartment, Iris locked the door behind her, put her bag on the bed, opened it, and found the small tape where she had placed it inside a stocking.

She pulled out her tape recorder, inserted the tape, and hit the “play” button. She let it run and then hit the “fast forward” button.

The tape was empty, nothing but the rush of ambient air. She turned the tape over. The other side yielded no voices.

Iris sat on the bed for about thirty seconds before she allowed herself a smile. Sergei Bresnechov, Tyrone, had fooled her. He had made a deal with another, perhaps several others, buyers, perhaps Pavel Petrov. It was too late and she was too tired to work it out now. She would sleep on it. In the morning it was sure to make more sense.

Just before she fell asleep it came to her. Tyrone would not make a deal with Petrov, the man who was responsible for the destruction of his apartment, the beating he had endured, and all that had been taken from him. No, Tyrone would want to cause maximum pain to the murderous Petrov. Tyrone would turn the tape over to the police or, better yet, make a deal with someone in the police to help him torment Petrov.

And just as she was dozing, at the very moment when thoughts and dreams are forgotten, Iris came up with a name: Colonel Igor Yaklovev. And then she was asleep.

General Misovenskisat red faced and in full uniform to impress Colonel Igor Yaklovev, who was dressed in a gray suit and matching tie. The General wanted to remind the Colonel who the superior officer was at this table. The General had already pressed home his superiority by indicating where he and Yaklovev would lunch.

Now they sat over brandy after a meal of cold borscht with cucumbers, beets and sour cream, and chicken tabak .

“A satisfactory conclusion to the Maniac murders now that he has been identified?” asked the General.

“Yes,” said the Yak. “The Maniac taken out of the picture, no trial, which might suggest a lack of investigation by your office, your team presented to the world as coming to the rescue of my chief investigator. Your highly efficient team came into the room and almost killed my Chief Investigator.”

“It could not be helped,” said General Misovenski. How is your man-Rostnikov, right?”

“He was shot in the shoulder and leg,” said the Yak. “Fortunately, it was his artificial one. It resulted in only cosmetic damage.”

“You were clearly and emphatically in support of the elimination of the Maniac.”

“I was.”

A look of sudden concern passed over the General’s face.

“You are not wearing a wire, are you, Colonel? I should not take it kindly if you are.”

“I assure you I am not,” said the Yak, sipping the amber drink. “However, I was the last time we met.”

“You are joking.”

“No.”

The General sat back and adjusted his collar. His medals jingled oh, so quietly.

“This seriously challenges our friendship.”

“We are not friends,” said the Yak. “We are business associates.”

“I am your superior officer.”

“Yes.”

“And if I were to order you to turn over your recording?”

“I would gladly give you a copy.”

“But there would be more. You are treading on dangerous ground, Igor Yaklovev. What do you want?”

“For you to continue to protect my office and provide assistance as we need it. And, in the future, be very careful when you have your men fire guns when my inspectors are present.”

“Yes, what else?”

“Chief Inspector Rostnikov wants your Major Aloyosha Tarasov to be punished.”

“For what?”

“You and I know full well that he murdered his wife, pushed her from a window.”

“Why does this interest your Inspector Rostnikov?”

“He wants justice.”

The General shook his head.

“He is my best officer.”

“Yes.”

“I will take care of it. Anything else?”

“No.”

General Misovenski finished his brandy and considered himself most fortunate to have gotten away with so much and to have paid so little for it. Of course the Colonel had the tape, which could be brought forth at any time. There was no use searching for the tape. There were probably half a dozen copies well hidden anyplace in the world.

“I should like you to consider becoming my deputy,” said the General.

“I would prefer not.”

“I could order you.”

“We could take the decision to a higher authority.”

The General was well aware of a supposed direct connection between Yaklovev and the Prime Minister. He was not prepared to challenge it.

“Well,” said the General. “I can do one more thing.”

“Yes.”

“I can pay for this marvelous lunch.”

“Thank you.”

The General motioned to the waiter to come over with the check.

“Coffee and a light fruit compote?” asked the waiter.

“Yaklovev?”

“No, thank you.”

The Yak had not mentioned the other tape in his possession, the one that would damn Pavel Petrov. He might never mention it.

The General waved the waiter away, placed his hands on the table palms down, and, with a smile, said, “You are a devious man. Take care of yourself, Yaklovev. Take very good care.”

Without lookingup, Zelach knew his mother was at the top of the stairs. He even knew what she was wearing, but that was not a prescient knowledge. She always wore the same thing, a dull dark smock with bright flowers. She had three of them of variously minimal hues.