Stuart Kaminsky - Blood and Rubles

This had all been a mistake. Anna had insisted that it had to be done quickly. She had given him a genuine Rolex and an hour of passion in his bedroom.

Artiom was not smart, but he was not a fool. When he worked honestly, he repaired automobiles. The man at the door was a half-wit named Boris who worked with him on cars. Boris was a genius with cars. Boris would also do whatever Artiom told him, including murder. Artiom had met Anna and Alexei when they brought in their Buick to be repaired. The next day Anna had come alone to pick up the car and Artiom.

Artiom’s wife had left him almost a year ago and taken their son, Kolya, with her. She had had enough of his women, his gambling, his indifference, and his outbursts of rage and brutality. She lived now with another man whom she said was her cousin from Sverdlovsk. She called Artiom often, demanding money. He would send what he could when he could.

Artiom had never before committed a major crime. He had been in jail for two weeks for hitting a policeman when he was drunk, and he had been questioned about a stolen car on which he had worked, but they had let him off on that one.

And now he was a kidnapper, and people were offering him millions to murder each other, people he did not trust.

“Work on your plan, Porvinovich,” Artiom said. “When I come back, we will make a call to your family. You will cooperate and you will tell me more about your plan.”

Alexei Porvinovich nodded. His legs were weak. His stomach was still upset, but he had something to scheme about now and he was a champion schemer. If he played it carefully, there was just a chance that he could survive.

Artiom moved to the man at the door, who slid over to let him pass.

“I am in pain,” Alexei said.

“Toilet is through that door on your side of the rug,” Artiom said. “Tell my man you have to use it and go in. There are no windows. There may be something you can use in the cabinet. You will have two minutes each time you use the toilet. You will be allowed three visits to the washroom each day. I’ve brought you newspapers and magazines.”

“I’ll need paper and a pen to write drafts of our agreement.”

“I’ll bring them,” Artiom said, thinking that it would not hurt to keep his captive hopeful.

When Artiom left, Alexei looked at the seated man in the ski mask. “Boris, I wish to go to the washroom.”

Alexei was sure that the seated man was Artiom’s assistant, a creature even more slow-witted than his boss.

The man did not answer. Alexei knew that Artiom was his wife’s lover. He knew that his brother Yevgeniy, though barely capable of an erection, had also been lured into Anna’s bed. There was hardly a man of their acquaintance whom Anna had not seduced or tried to seduce, particularly the odd or different man-the mechanic, the apparently sexless Moscow University history professor they had met at a party. Anna knew her husband was aware of most of the names on her long list, but the names were not important to Alexei. Neither, he was beginning to think, was Anna.

The idea of getting his captor to murder Anna and Yevgeniy had come to him in an instant. Anna had to have planned all this. Yevgeniy had to know. They planned to kill him and make it look like a botched kidnapping.

Alexei did not feel safe. Far from it. Nothing was certain, but he had dealt masterfully with bureaucrats all of his life. He had dealt masterfully and patiently. He smiled at the man at the door. He doubted if the man even recognized that the broken, purple face had smiled.

Rostnikov’s wife opened the door to their small apartment on Krasikov Street when she heard her husband’s key in the lock.

She was wearing a black dress with an artificial pearl necklace. Her still-red hair was cut short, and she looked, thought Rostnikov, quite beautiful. She had lost a great deal of weight during a long bout with a brain tumor. Her recovery had been slow, but now, with her moments of dizziness fewer, she had gone back to her job at the music store and lately seemed even radiant.

“This is Craig Hamilton,” Rostnikov said.

Sarah took the black man’s extended hand.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Hamilton said.

“Does Emil know?” Sarah asked, closing the door behind the two men. “About Mathilde?”

“I have assigned him to the case,” said Rostnikov.

“The officer whose friend died in the street killing?” Hamilton asked.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov.

“In the United States, if an officer is involved with a victim, we rarely assign him or her to the case,” said Hamilton. “Too close. Too emotional.”

“In Karpo’s case,” said Rostnikov, moving toward the cubbyhole near the window that served as a kitchen and pantry, “emotion will not be a visible factor. But he will be on the killers like a piranha on the carcass of a dying cow.”

Sarah was bustling to a wardrobe in the corner. She took out a lightweight dark overcoat and said, “I’m late. The girls are at school. There’s some bread and herring and a little rice pudding.” She picked up a small handbag from the sofa. “And bring Emil Karpo here tonight. Order him to come.”

She hurried over to Rostnikov, her heels clicking on the tile floor. Rostnikov and their son, Iosef, had done the tiling themselves after a lucky purchase on the black market several months ago. Sarah gave her husband a kiss on the cheek as he searched the cupboard. He turned and hugged her, lifting her easily from the floor.

“If you feel dizzy …” he said.

“I will sit down,” she said.

He put her down, and she hurried to the door, pausing to take Craig Hamilton’s hand again and say, “It was nice to meet you. May we meet again soon.”

And she was off.

“Lovely lady,” said Hamilton, following Rostnikov into the kitchen alcove. “Didn’t even ask who I was.”

“She knows I’ll tell her later,” Rostnikov said, rummaging for something. He found it and said, “Yah.”

He turned triumphantly with a tall jar of French strawberry preserves. “Coffee, bread and jam or bread and herring?”

“The bread and jam,” Hamilton said, sitting at the small table not far from the window.

“So, what do you think?” asked Rostnikov as he prepared the meal.

“Think?”

“About the apartment.” Still focused on the components of the meal before him, Rostnikov absently waved the knife in his hand.

Hamilton had taken in the room without looking around. Now he looked. A faded, flower-patterned sofa was positioned between two solid-colored peach wingback chairs that almost coordinated with the sofa. A bookcase lined an entire wall, its shelves filled with not only books but old LP records and what looked like small dumbbells. There was a large painting on the wall with a woman in the foreground, her back to the viewer, her red hair and green dress billowing forward as she held her left hand up to keep the hair from her face. She looked out along a vast green field toward a house in the distance, a modest farmhouse with a small barn. The sun was going down behind the barn. Hamilton assumed that the painting was of Rostnikov’s wife or that he had bought it because it resembled her.

“The painting was a gift from Mathilde Verson,” said Rostnikov. “That is Mathilde in the painting, a self-portrait in a way, a birthday gift from one redhead to another. Mathilde gave it to Sarah when my wife was recovering from surgery.”

“Mathilde Verson was an artist?” Hamilton asked.

Rostnikov looked at the American and smiled.

“What’s funny?” asked Hamilton.

“You know that Mathilde was a prostitute. I’m sure you read all the reports.”