Stuart Kaminsky - Blood and Rubles

“It’s your country,” said Hamilton, racing through computer files.

“It was,” said Karpo.

“We’re not going to get this done in time,” said Hamilton, lining up the backup disks and looking around the room.

“He wouldn’t leave anything lying around,” said Karpo.

“Then what are we looking for?” asked Hamilton as he switched off the computer. “There could be something on the hard disk or one of the floppies that can be opened with a code. The man was a scientist. An anal-retentive one. Look at this place. It looks as if a team of maids left five minutes ago. Except …”

They both looked at the mess of cubbyholes.

“A concession,” said Hamilton.

Karpo shook his head no.

“Then what?” asked Hamilton. He stood up and felt more comfortable because he could get his gun out quickly.

“What if the disorder of these papers and the randomness of these slots is neither disorderly nor random?” said Karpo.

“Meaning?”

“If someone touched a shelf or looked at its contents when Kuzen wasn’t here, he would come back and know it.”

“Why would he care if …?” Hamilton began, and then stopped.

“Something is hidden,” said Karpo.

He ran his fingers delicately along the wooden slats between the compartments. His touch was light, his eyes unblinking. Suddenly he stopped.

A piece of paper, the tiny corner of a newspaper or page of a book, fluttered to the table.

“Which one?” asked Hamilton.

“This,” said Karpo, pointing to the cubbyhole marked BILLS.

If someone disturbed the papers even slightly, the seemingly random bit of paper would flutter to the table. The person who had disturbed the papers could ignore it, throw it away, pocket it, or try to return it to the sheaf of papers. But return it where, between which two sheets?

“A very cautious man,” said Hamilton.

“His caution failed to save his life,” said Karpo, pulling out the stack of bills and handing half of them to the FBI agent.

Two minutes later they had examined the small pile.

“We can take them and check them,” Hamilton said, adding the bills to the pile of floppy disks.

Karpo removed the sliding bottom of the now-empty cubbyhole. The bottom was a narrow slat of wood that fit into a slot, just like the rest of the open-faced shelves. There was nothing taped to the slat of wood, nothing taped to the back of the shelf.

“Two more minutes,” Hamilton said, checking his watch.

Karpo ran his fingers around the edge of the slat of wood. When he was gently brushing one side of the slat, he stopped and examined it.

“How thin can a disk be?” he asked.

Hamilton shrugged. “Paper-thin. Why?”

“Our time is up,” Karpo said, starting to slide the slat back into the wooden cabinet. “I’ll call again. You can check the other rooms.”

“Right,” said Hamilton, moving toward the living room.

With one hand Karpo picked up the phone and dialed Petrovka. With the other he removed the slat again, found the spot he was seeking, and dug his thumbnail into the nearly paper-thin, one-inch-long slit of clay that had been painted the same color as the thin wood. He asked again for immediate support and hung up, listening for Hamilton’s footsteps in the other room. Karpo quickly removed the clay and turned the slat of wood onto one side. A round, bright circle of metal fell into his palm. He pocketed the metal, slid the slat back in its slot, and returned the bills to the cubbyhole. He carefully gathered the bits of clay in his fingers and deposited them in another pocket.

Fifteen minutes later a quartet of police, in full uniform, weapons at the ready, were standing in the room over the bodies of the two dead men while a very black man in a very good suit and a tall, gaunt figure they recognized as Karpo the Vampire answered questions put to them by their officer, a young captain who was already losing hair and gaining weight. The young captain looked tired. The sight of the bodies barely drew his attention.

“Mafia,” he said with a resigned sigh.

“Yes,” said Hamilton, explaining who had killed whom less than half an hour earlier.

Kuzen’s dead eyes were open. Karpo looked down at them. The dead man had lost his life and his secret.

Arkady Zelach had a headache. He wasn’t sure whether it was from his old injury, the fact that he had now gone a full twenty-four hours without sleep, or the presence of the screeching woman on whose shoulder a baby slept.

Colonel Snitkonoy himself had called to congratulate him on saving the life of Sasha Tkach and apprehending all three of the killer children. Porfiry Petrovich had done the same and told him to wrap up the paperwork and get home for some well-deserved sleep.

Zelach had already called his mother for the third time. He had called her the night before to say that he would be home slightly after midnight. Then he had called her to say that Sasha Tkach had been injured and that he would have to work at least a few more hours. After that Zelach went to the hospital to be sure Sasha was all right and then back to the district station where the three boys were being held. Their mother was waiting for him along with a skinny man with curly black hair and the face of a night animal with long teeth. The man’s name, he was told, was Lermonov. Lermonov was a lawyer, a new and rising breed who knew there was no longer a viable written criminal justice code. Lermonov and others like him jumped in where the Parliament feared to walk. The new lawyers quoted precedent, old laws, new laws, invented laws. Each and every one of the hundreds of mafias had its own lawyer or two or three. Lermonov was sure he was on the way up, that some well-connected businessman or high-ranking mafia member would recognize his ability and move him into a position of power. Meanwhile he made the best of things, representing whoever called on his services, which he hawked with business cards inserted into the mail slots along the streets of the vast neighborhood in which the Chazovs and others who might get into trouble with the police lived. The five hundred cards had cost him nothing. They were the price of representing a printer named Kholkov, who had set up business in a Gorky Street basement with no permit from the police or the local mafia. Lermonov had simply made one small bribe to a police sergeant on Kholkov’s behalf as well as the promise of an immediate substantial percentage of Kholkov’s business for the mafia, which in turn promised to give Kholkov customers.

It was because of one of his cards that Elvira Chazova had called on him in his tiny apartment-office. He had taken on her cause immediately. He took on all causes immediately as long as there was a payment up front. Elvira, child in her arms, belly full, had pleaded with him to take on the legal protection of her children in the name of mercy and decency. Elvira was a fraud. Lermonov saw through her and demanded cash or goods. Elvira had given cash, and now Lermonov and his client sat across from Zelach in the large, echoing room. Zelach’s head ached. He needed help. Paperwork and screaming mothers and insistent lawyers were beyond him. He sat quite still, back straight, and said little.

“The boys you are holding are completely innocent,” Lermonov said. “In fact, they are heroes. Just before you came rushing out to attack them, Mrs. Chazova’s boys had beaten off two older boys, who were attacking the policeman. The Chazovas drove them away and were tending to the policeman when you came out and started to beat and handcuff them.”

“No,” said Zelach, determined to show no signs of wavering, which he accomplished by conjuring up the image of Tkach on the sidewalk and one of the boys about to strike him with a brick. “It was they.”