Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

“Two big boys took the man’s bag when he dropped it. They ran away. That way.”

This time she pointed to the opposite end of the platform from the one toward which she had said the woman had run.

“They stole it,” the girl said.

“It appears as if they did,” said Elena. “Did the lady say anything?”

Elena looked at the grandmother, who was still trembling. The little girl held the older woman’s hand and patted it gently.

“My grandma does not watch television,” Alexandra confided almost in a whisper. “She has not seen people bleeding and killed and things. I tried to explain to her.”

“Yes,” said Elena. “Anything else you can tell us about the lady?”

The grandmother shook her head.

Alexandra said, “Yes. He was her father.”

“Her father?”

“She called the man At’e’ts, ‘Father,’” said the child. “Two times while she was hitting him, like this.” The child raised her fist as if she held a knife and jabbed out, saying, “‘Father, Father.’ Like that. Just like that.”

They could hear the sound, feel the vibration and the noise, coming from Loni’s when they were about a hundred yards away. A guitar screeched.

“Jimi Hendrix,” Zelach said as they walked toward the door. A very big pair of men wearing leather vests and no shirts on their shaved chests stood guard.

“The player is Jimi Hendrix?” asked Karpo.

“No, the sound. Whoever is playing is imitating Hendrix.”

“I see,” said Karpo, who did not see at all.

At the door the sound was a screaming, sharp-nailed scratch down the spine. The two men in leather vests stood in front of them. Karpo and Zelach took out their wallets and showed their identification.

“I’ll check with the manager,” one of the two men said.

“You may check with the manager after we are inside,” said Karpo. “We do not require permission.”

The two big guards looked at each other and then at Karpo and Zelach.

“You do here,” one of them said. “Mr. Trotskov has friends.”

Which meant that Mr. Trotskov was paying off a Mafia and very likely local police. At least that was what the big man at the door implied.

“You will step back and let us pass,” Karpo said calmly.

“Just wait till …” the big man started, and Karpo stepped forward so his face was inches from the guard.

“We will not wait,” he said. “You will open the door and we will pass.

Karpo’s pale face stood out in the light above the door. His black clothing made that face look like a floating death mask. Something in that mask, the eyes, made the big man say, “Fine, go in.” He nodded to the other man, who opened the door. “Primo,” the first guard said, “go tell Mr. Trotskov that the police are here.”

There would be no need to point out to the owner who Karpo and Zelach were. They stood out in the blaring smoke-filled crowd of young people. With Karpo in front, the detectives made their way through a sea of young men with bad teeth and tattoos as colorful as those of a Siberian convict. Swastikas, skeletons, guns, knives, churches, women, angels, and devils adorned the chests, arms, and even cheeks of both young men and women who, drinks or cigarettes in hand, swayed to the music and parted with scowls as the policemen moved through them to the bar.

Behind the crowded bar, the man they had spoken to earlier, the one called Abbi, stood serving. He was clean-faced and looked sober, with a fresh blue T-shirt and hands moving professionally to keep up with the orders.

Abbi spotted the detectives and moved toward them behind the bar. “You were here this morning, right?”

It was almost impossible to hear him over the screaming of Death Times Four on the small stage.

“That is right,” said Karpo. “We are looking for Bottle Kaps and Heinrich.”

“I don’t know anyone with those names,” Abbi said, looking at the nearby customers who were listening to the conversation.

“You knew them this morning,” Karpo said. “If they are here, point them out. If you will not, we will close this place.”

“They,” Abbi said, nodding at the crowd, “would tear you apart.”

“That is not your concern,” said Karpo.

“What is happening here?” asked a man of about forty who came up behind the bar. He was short with a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a gray pullover shirt with short sleeves. Inscribed on the left side of the shirt were the words Top Sail in English.

“We are looking for two people who call themselves Bottle Kaps and Heinrich,” said Karpo.

“Why?” shouted the man. “I’m Yevgeny Trotskov, the manager.”

“They were seen leaving here two nights ago with Misha Lovski,” Karpo said.

“Naked Cossack,” Zelach supplied.

“Naked Cossack? I don’t think he was here two nights ago,” Trotskov said, shaking his head.

The music suddenly stopped. The crowd shouted. The lead singer, Snub Nose Bullet, gave the crowd the finger and bit his lower lip. He was thin and bare-chested and had the chiseled face and nose of a Romanian. The crowd loved it. They shouted obscenities back at him and laughed and applauded and banged their bottles and glasses against tables and the bar.

“He was here,” said Karpo. “Point out Bottle Kaps and Heinrich.”

“They said they’d close us down,” said Abbi.

Trotskov smiled knowingly. “We can discuss this in my office,” he said, reaching out for Karpo’s arm. Karpo did not move. He met Trotskov’s eyes, and the bearded owner of Loni’s knew that this man was not interested in a bribe.

“They will kill you,” Trotskov said, his eyes scanning the crowd.

“I told them,” Abbi said.

“Zelach,” said Karpo. “Go to the door. Fire four shots into the ceiling. If anyone attacks you, shoot them.”

“You’re-” Trotskov started, but he could see that the Vampire before him was not bluffing.

“If one of us is hurt or anyone has to be shot,” said Karpo, “Loni’s will cease to exist.”

The madman is prepared to die, Trotskov thought. He looked at the other policeman, the unkempt one with the glasses who did not seem to be as interested in dying as his partner.

“Listen,” Trotskov said, turning to. Zelach.

“To the door,” said Karpo. “Fire.”

Zelach blinked and turned to head for the door, prepared though not pleased at the prospect of dying in this place or, for that matter, in any place.

“Wait,” said Trotskov. “Wait. They’re over there. Table near the stage.”

There were four people at the table. None of them were looking their way.

“Bottle Kaps has a red heart with á knife through it tattooed on his left arm. Heinrich is the big one with the swastika on his chest. Don’t tell them I pointed them out. Please.”

Karpo started for the table, a temporarily relieved Zelach at his side. Zelach had long ago learned that the man with whom he was working seemed to be without fear. He did not appear to value his life. Zelach, however, valued his very much, though he often thought himself nearly worthless. Luck had put him where he was in the Office of Special Investigation. At times like this he thought it had been bad rather than good luck.

Karpo moved to the table with Zelach at his side and looked directly at the one with the red heart with a knife through it tattooed on his arm.

“You are known as Bottle Kaps,” Karpo said.

All four young men at the table looked up. All four were skinheads. All four were drinking beer and smiling.

Bottle Kaps looked away from Karpo, ignoring him, and continued saying to Heinrich at his side, “So, I tell the little ant that if he does not return it I will crush his head with my boots.”