Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

People at nearby tables had stopped talking to watch how the confrontation was going to play out.

Karpo said, “We have some questions to ask you.”

The four at the table ignored the gaunt policeman and kept talking.

Zelach looked around, moving his hand up his side in case he had to reach for his gun. They could, thought Zelach, simply go outside, wait till Bottle Kaps and Heinrich came out later. He did not really care if they had to wait half the night, given the alternative that Karpo was now pursuing.

Karpo took the table in two hands and flung it on its side against the two to whom he was talking. Glasses and bottles and ashtrays and keys flew. Heinrich fell to the floor. Bottle Kaps slid back on his chair. The other two at the table stood facing the detectives.

“I have questions,” Karpo said calmly. “It would be easier to sit quietly and talk than to come with us, but the choice is yours. Make it now.”

Bottle Kaps let out a grunt and pushed the fallen table out of his way. Zelach was sure he was going to charge at Karpo. Heinrich held out a hand to stop him.

“No riot,” he said. “You talk. We listen.”

Heinrich started to pick up the table. He needed help from Bottle Kaps and both of the others who had been seated at the table.

There was a moment now when Zelach felt certain that someone would jump on his back, stab him in the neck, beat him with a chair. He wanted to turn and face the crowd behind him but he held firm, doing his best to pretend he felt as confident and unafraid as Karpo looked.

Death Times Four had missed the confrontation. They had gone through a door in the wall behind the stage. When they came out, looking angry as hell, they were greeted not by cheers but by a silence.

“Out of the grave,” Snub Nose Bullet screamed at them. “The sun is down. It’s night. The night is ours.”

Then his eyes met those of Karpo.

Snub Nose Bullet, whose real name was Casimir Rolvanoshki, had seen many people dressed like vampires, but he had the impression that he might be seeing a real one for the first time. That was what the silence was all about.

Hell, this one might be here to destroy them all for mocking the living dead. Snub Nose Bullet was ready. Vindication. He hit a chord and launched into a song he had written and rehearsed only that afternoon.

He wanted to give Karpo the finger, give death the finger, but the best Casimir behind his own mask could do was to give a less-than-powerful sneer before he started singing.

“We will sit here,” Karpo said above the music, moving the chairs of the two young men who had been sitting with Bottle Kaps and Heinrich.

Karpo had to have a plan. Zelach was certain of that now. He would not be constantly challenging these people if he were not confident, did not know exactly how they would react. Karpo knew more about the law than anyone in the Office of Special Investigation, perhaps even more than Inspector Rostnikov himself, and knowing the law at this point in Russian history was no small accomplishment. On a day-to-day basis, Zelach had no idea what the law might be on any crime. He trusted Karpo. He trusted the others. He had no choice.

Death Times Four howled and shouted. Snub Nose Bullet leaned toward Karpo and sang-shouted, “Swine in brown and swine in blue. They will step all over you.”

The four skinheads at the table remained standing, looking at Karpo, waiting for him to make a move.

“Shrapnel Spew,” Zelach muttered.

He had spoken softly but somehow the singer on the low stage leaning toward Karpo heard him and hesitated. The mess of a policeman with glasses, the sweating blob, was right. The line was from the Estonian group Shrapnel Spew. Casimir had not made it up this afternoon-not the song nor the words. He had simply remembered them, and there he stood doing something he had never done before. He was singing and playing someone else’s music. The song was obscure, but somehow this policeman had recognized it. Casimir was sure there was no one else in the room who had any idea of the disaster.

Casimir stopped singing, kept playing, and pointed a finger at Zelach. Everyone watched, not knowing what was happening. Death Times Four was giving this slouch of a policeman the sign that he was good. Snub Nose Bullet did not give his blessings easily, and to a cop?

“Sit down,” said Heinrich.

Karpo and Zelach sat and so did Heinrich and Bottle Kaps. The other two reluctantly moved away.

Karpo paused but an instant before asking his first question. The hesitation came from a completely unexpected source. Emil Karpo, perhaps for the only time in his life since he was a child, had lost control. No one watching him could have known. He looked the same as he always did, but he knew his actions had been unnecessarily provocative.

Was it this place? These people? The deep realization that this is what had become of the nation for which he lived, the cause in which he had believed? He was in the belly of a dying beast, the heart of chaos. This place was a cancer. These people were spreading it. And they were only a symptom. His head beat with the first pangs of migraine. The smoke, the noise, the realization, the lights. Pain. He wanted to get this over quickly and get to the darkness of his room. And because he wanted it over quickly, he chose not to give in, to move slowly, to challenge the pain.

“Two nights ago you were seen leaving here with Misha Lovski, the Naked Cossack,” he said.

Neither of the young men answered.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

The two young men looked at each other. The look between them said that they both recognized the madness in the eyes of this pale spectre.

“We left him in the street and went home,” said Heinrich.

“Right outside in the street,” Bottle Kaps confirmed, shaking his head.

“No, you did not,” said Karpo.

Zelach sat silent, listening.

“What is this about?” asked Bottle Kaps.

“Misha, the Naked Cossack, is missing,” said Karpo.

“Missing?” asked Heinrich. “Gone?”

“We want to find him,” said Karpo. “We want you to tell us where he is.”

“Us? We do not know. Go find some of those rappers. They probably killed him. They hate him, hate us all. We would not hurt the Naked Cossack. He is a symbol of our battle.”

“Battle with whom?” asked Karpo. “About what?”

“You, everyone, the weak bastards who are turning Russia over to the Jews,” said Bottle Kaps.

“And the niggers, the chernozhopyi,” said Heinrich. “And the Chinese. The rappery. And …”

“I did not say we thought he was kidnapped, killed, or even hurt,” said Karpo. “I said only that he is missing.”

“We don’t know where he is,” Heinrich said.

“No,” said his partner.

“You will come with us,” said Karpo, starting to rise.

“Why?” Heinrich protested.

“Because you are lying,” Karpo said. “If Misha Lovski is dead, you too will die.”

“This is crazy,” said Heinrich. “You think he is dead and you just want someone to blame because his father is rich and-”

The band was wailing a few feet from Karpo’s throbbing head. He wanted to slowly rise, take the guitar from the shouting robot, and methodically rip out each string.

“How do you know his father is rich?” asked Karpo.

“He told us,” said Heinrich.

“He told no one,” said Karpo. “He is ashamed of his father. Someone else told you.”

Bottle Kaps gritted his teeth and looked at Karpo with a last pretense of anger.

“We do not know where he is. We do not know who took him.”

“What,” asked Karpo, “makes you think someone took him? One assumption we made was that he went away on his own, but your answers confirm that he has been taken. You will come with us.”