Stuart Kaminsky - Tarnished Icons

“God,” he said to himself, “I’m going to do it again, do it before I kill her.” It was the wrong thing to do. It would definitely point to the serial rapist and not to the political fanatics who had murdered the newsman, but Valentin knew that he could not control himself.

He quickened his pace, closing the distance between himself and Magda. She did not look back. There were no footsteps to be heard in the thin layer of snow on the sidewalk. He waited, following. There were hardly any people on the street. It was cold. It was late. A few cars were parked nearby, their hubcaps and windshield wipers removed for the night by their owners to keep them from being stolen. It was reasonably safe for him. Besides, he had little choice. The obsession had taken him. It had overridden his conviction that he had to murder the woman in front of him. Murder her he would, but first …

Valentin closed the distance between them to no more than six feet and then he knew. He felt it before he saw them. It was confirmed by the look of revenge on the hard, lovely face of Magda Stern, who turned suddenly to face him. Valentin stopped.

“Halt,” came a voice behind him. The voice was familiar. “Hands behind your head.”

Valentin did not think about what he did next. He closed the distance between himself and Magda Stern in three long, quick steps, moved behind her, and with one swift instinctive motion, put his left arm over her neck, pulled out the pistol, and put it to her head.

In front of him, over her shoulder, Valentin could now see Sasha Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva no more than a dozen yards away with pistols aimed at him.

“What is the point of this, Spaskov?” Elena asked him. “If you pull the trigger, we will kill you.”

“You know who I am now,” said Spaskov, the concern of the honest policeman coming to the fore. “I will not be taken in to face this woman’s charges, to stand in front of other women, to be humiliated, to have my family humiliated. It would be better to die in the street. I have nothing to lose by killing her.”

Magda Stern stood tall, making no sound, determined to give no satisfaction to the man who had attacked her and now threatened to kill her.

Both Elena and Sasha knew that Valentin Spaskov would probably not shoot Magda Stern first. His first shot would be at Sasha and then, whether Elena hesitated or fired knowing she might hit Magda, Spaskov would shoot Elena. Magda would be last.

The only one of the four people in the stalemate on the silent street wearing gloves was Magda Stern. The three police officers had no gloves so that they could more easily handle their weapons. Their hands were cold but steady.

“I need time to think,” said Valentin, pushing the woman slowly forward. “Move into the street. Give us room to pass. Don’t try to get behind me. Move now.”

“You have a wife, a beautiful child,” said Sasha. “Remember, I saw their pictures.”

“And you have a wife and two children,” said Valentin as Sasha and Elena moved into the street. “What would they do? What would they think if they found you were like me? I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you don’t give me time.”

Sasha was silent.

“You see?” said Valentin. “You have a great deal to lose.”

“You could get help,” said Elena. “We could get you psychological help. You haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“No,” said Valentin, turning Magda to face the two armed officers as he moved back toward the Moscow Television News office. “I’ll go to prison. My wife and child won’t be able to face me. Can’t you see I need time to think? How many times must I say it? Do you want to push me into doing something without having the chance to think?”

“Take your time, then,” said Elena. “Stop. Take your time. We won’t do anything as long as you don’t hurt her.”

Valentin continued to move, keeping Magda between himself and the two in the street with guns. As they approached the corner, Valentin moved himself and his captive into the street.

“I’m going to my car,” he said. “Stay back. Stay careful. I would guess that I am a better shot than either of you. I don’t want to shoot police officers. None of us wants a massacre. I just want time to decide what to do.”

“We can’t let you drive off,” said Sasha. “You know that.”

“You may have to,” said Valentin as he backed his way across the street, his arm tight around Magda’s neck. She was not cooperating, so he had to half drag her, causing his arm to tighten around her neck. Even with the increased pain and the difficulty breathing she refused to cooperate. Valentin admired her, and in spite of what was now happening, he wanted to have her. It was at this moment he knew he was surely mad.

Sasha and Elena followed, guns leveled as he moved to the car. He had left the door unlocked so he could get away quickly. Now he opened it and said, his voice shaking, not with fear but with emotion, “I am going to put her in the passenger seat. I will have to let her go, but I’ll keep the gun against her head. We are at the moment when you will have to shoot me and risk her life or let us get in.”

Valentin pushed Magda into the car. Sasha and Elena did not fire as he got in after his hostage and closed the door. But they did stand directly in front of the car, weapons at the ready, hands numb from the cold.

Spaskov did not try to start the car. He kept his weapon against Magda Stern’s head. Both Elena and Sasha realized at the same time what he was doing. The inside of the car was definitely not warm, but it was much warmer there than the outside. Soon Elena’s and Sasha’s hands would begin to lose feeling. Already the prickling sensation had begun.

Valentin looked at them through the frost-covered window. He could see their shapes in the street before him, and they could see the faint outline of Spaskov with the gun to Magda’s head.

The standoff was definitely in Spaskov’s favor. All he had to do was wait till the hands of the two who stood in front of the car were too cold to shoot.

The car was a Mercedes. Many police cars, marked and unmarked, were Mercedes, which were far more reliable than Russian-made cars. Even cold it would start quickly. He could run right into them and over them before they could react. Neither Elena nor Sasha could tell if the front window was bulletproof. It probably wasn’t, but they couldn’t be sure with the frost and shadows covering it.

Elena felt as if she were in a dream. Less than two hours ago, when Sasha called her to say he was picking her up and that Magda Stern would be leaving the Moscow Television News office at ten, she had been sitting in her aunt’s living room. The meal was over. Elena was confident that she had done a good job, not because Iosef had said so but because she knew she had. The conversation had been fine, and Anna had retired to her room to leave them alone.

Elena and Iosef had cleaned the dishes together, talking softly about work, family, his ideas and ambitions, her ideas and ambitions. The conversation had ranged from politics to books and movies, and they had discovered even more remarkable coincidences in their views, though Elena was a bit more pessimistic about the future of Russia and the world than Iosef. He attributed the difference to his experiences in the army. Almost naively, he assumed that things could probably not get much worse than that.

He had kissed her when the last pot was cleaned and the last dish put away. He had kissed her deeply and she had responded eagerly and when he had again asked her to marry him, she had been about to say “yes, yes, yes” when the phone rang and Sasha told her to come quickly.

She had expected the call, but not quite this early.