Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

The other two piles carried only single names. The people named were powerful. Others would call what Yaklovev was going to do blackmail, but if nothing was openly said and no overt pressure took place, it was simply a matter of one person doing a favor for another whom he respects or who has done him a favor. One of the piles was urgent. The man named on the stick-em was quickly drinking himself to death and his chances of eventually succeeding Putin were all but gone. Igor had a great investment of his time in this well-meaning alcoholic. He had tapes, documents that demanded favors, but what good were obligations and favors if the man was dead? Still, if Igor Yaklovev moved quickly, there was possibly still something to be gained from him.

He sat back, looked at the five piles with satisfaction, and considered when he would make his move. This was his favorite time of each day. Coffee within reach, papers and files before him to be studied, considered, manipulated. He was satisfied for now serving as director of the Office of Special Investigation. Rostnikov was the ideal partner to serve Yaklovev’s needs. Rostnikov was interested in solving crimes. In the process, he fed Yaklovev golden data. It was a perfect relationship, and Yaklovev showed his appreciation of his chief investigator by giving Rostnikov what he needed and providing protection for Rostnikov or his people when they were in trouble. Yaklovev was loyal to those who worked for and with him. He had never betrayed those who worked in his KGB unit and he would never betray his present investigators, but in a year or two, possibly three at the most, he would humbly accept a major promotion, possibly even to Minister of the Interior. He would see to it that Rostnikov and the others were in good hands. He wanted to leave no enemies behind him. He did not want to be liked. He wanted to be respected. Had his father learned this lesson … but that was in the past. The present and future lay before him in neat piles.

He finished his coffee, cleaned the cup and dried it, and then went back to gather the papers. They were all copies. The original documents and reports were well hidden in a well-protected, large steel safe-deposit box in a bank in Korov.

The director of the bank owed Igor Yaklovev a very large favor. The director owed Yaklovev his very life. He had learned that paranoia was essential to his survival. Still, these piles had to be returned to the wall safe in the bedroom. While there were ways of getting into the safe in the apartment other than by using the proper combination, there was no way someone could get into the safe without leaving clear signs that a theft or even attempted theft had taken place. Igor had been a KGB field director for fourteen years.

A fleeting, pleasant memory of his wife almost came to life, but, as was usually the case, it faded before it could take shape.

He had much to do.

When the papers had been tucked away in the large safe, Igor Yaklovev looked out the bedroom window at the sky. It might rain. He could always hail a cab on the way to Petrovka. He hoped the rain would hold off for an hour or so. He had much to think about. He would prefer the long walk.

Yuri Kriskov had readily agreed to stay in his home and be guarded for as long as was necessary. But the two policemen, he decided, were too young and did not appear particularly interested, except for the younger of the two, who was definitely interested in Vera.

Therefore, the night before, Yuri had made a decision and a phone call. A little after midnight, four burly men heavily armed with automatic weapons had appeared at the door. The confrontation with the two young policemen was brief and surly. The policemen had called their chief at Petrovka, who said he didn’t give a shit about Kriskov. If he wanted to pay bodyguards, let him. He ordered the two young policemen to end their vigil. The two policemen departed.

The four armed men wore uniforms complete with badges and stripes on their arms. The uniforms were decidedly more expensive and official-looking than those of the police. The bodyguards quickly and politely checked the house and the view from each window as soon as dawn broke.

In Russia there are forty-five hundred security firms, or krysha, “roofs,” with seventy thousand legally armed and very well paid operatives, many of them former police, KGB, and soldiers. These private armies, which protect businesses, banks, and wealthy individuals who have reason to believe their lives may be in danger, outnumber the police.

After several years with one of these security firms, hundreds of bodyguards leave to join the enemy, Mafias and bandit groups, which pay even better. The security guards are quickly replaced by policemen, who defect for the reality of hard cash.

“Is this really necessary? Do we really need these men in the house with guns?” Vera said softly in the kitchen to her husband.

Yuri had not ceased smoking and looking over his shoulder.

“They are better than the police,” he said. “The police didn’t tell me to cover the windows. The police didn’t tell me to stay away from windows. The police didn’t patrol the house and go down the streets and behind the other houses and knock at doors to ask questions. Let the police concentrate on finding this lunatic and my negative. This army will protect me till then.”

“They will frighten the children,” Vera said.

“The children are at school.”

“What if this madman kidnaps our children?” she asked.

“What has that to do with these men’ guarding me? And why would he do that? Why would he take the children? Tell me. Why would he do something like that?”

“To get you to give him the money,” she said.

“I have no money to give him,” he answered between clenched teeth.

“You have enough to pay a private army. But you wouldn’t have enough to save the lives of your children.”

“No one is kidnapping the children,” he said. “You want me to pay for more bodyguards to go to the school, fine. You want to go out, fine. Leave me alone. I will conduct business by phone. I will try to believe that I am safe and that there is a chance the negative will be returned and this lunatic found. Do you realize we could lose everything?”

Vera had taken extra time to select a proper dress and put on her makeup. She was now making an extra effort to continue to play the concerned and dutiful wife. She would keep up the show until Valery found a way to make his move. The big men with big guns complicated everything. Yuri was right. It would have been easier if the police were still in charge, but Yuri was not to be moved.

Her husband’s behavior had kept her up during the night while Yuri, in spite of his fear, had managed a snoring sleep. She had even smoked a cigarette for the first time in two years. She wanted to call Valery, to make him come to his senses, to be careful, perhaps to wait a few days or even weeks. But she dared not go to the phone. She was beginning to think it possible that the police would find him, that he would fail to end Yuri Kriskov’s life, and she would be denounced by this animal who loved her. And Yuri would live. No. She could not live another week with the reeking, unfaithful, lying coward whose existence made her feel dirty. Living a lie was something she no longer could do.

During the night she heard the security guards moving around the inside and outside of the house. She had moved to the room of each child, wondering how much of this they were absorbing. Neither child had asked many questions and both had seemingly been content to hear that a bad man was trying to get their father to give him money and the men with guns were going to find the man and put him in jail.