Stuart Kaminsky - Blood and Rubles

“The dead man.”

“No.”

“I’m going to get myself a glass of tea. Would you like one?”

“No, Chief Inspector,” said Popovich, though he would truly have welcomed something for his dry mouth.

“Bring in the witnesses one at a time,” Rostnikov said. He moved toward the rear of the café, where there was a shining metal urn, its spigot slowly dripping tea into a saucer that had overflowed. “When you come back in, I’ll have a glass of tea poured for you.”

Unsure of what to do, Popovich saluted and stepped back out onto the street, where he waved at the two policemen who were detaining a group of men. He held up a single finger to indicate that he wanted one of the men sent over. One of the policemen ushered a thin man across the street. The crowd, assuming that the man was a suspect, began pelting him with a few bits of glass from the broken café window, the odd stone, and a piece or two of rotten fruit. Fortunately for the man, who was the owner of the Lada, and for the policeman who escorted him, the crowd found little to throw.

The gray wolfhound entered the room and looked down at the four men seated behind the finely polished wooden table. “Reports today will be limited to direct criminal investigations in progress,” he said. “I have an important meeting with the Minister of the Interior in twenty minutes.”

Ever since the dissolution of Communism and the Soviet Union, the Gray Wolfhound had taken to wearing a green uniform of his own design. No one seemed to know or care if this act of creative military fashion was within the realm of protocol and law. But as the four men seated behind the table all knew but would admit to few, there was a kind of free-floating law in Russia-partly the remnants of Communism, partly an attempt to establish the semblance of a democratic process, and partly the whim of whoever was willing to act as if he knew what to do. The risk of taking this step forward was that it might well destroy one in the future. The political advantages of the move, on the other hand, were potentially great.

The Wolfhound’s uniform was, as always, perfectly pressed, presumably by his adjutant, who lived with the colonel in a small but sufficient dacha not far from Moscow. The colonel’s medals, his lone concession to the past, glittered on his chest. His mane of perfect white hair flowed back as if fashioned by a benevolent wind.

The senior staff meeting was being held, as always, in the colonel’s office in Petrovka 38, the central headquarters of the various police districts reorganized in the last several years by an unknown Yeltsin associate. Today’s meeting was out of the ordinary due to the presence of a solidly built man seated at the end of the conference table well apart from the others. He wore a blue suit and tie and had his curly black hair cut short. He looked decidedly athletic, and his age appeared to be somewhere between forty and fifty, though it was difficult for the colonel’s staff to gauge the age of a black man. The need to do so had come up infrequently in their careers.

At the center of the table sat Pankov, the near-dwarf who served as the colonel’s assistant. Pankov’s primary function was to appear in public at the colonel’s side, thus enhancing the image of the Wolfhound by comparison with the rumpled, unkempt, confused little Pankov.

To Pankov’s right was Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who seemed to be taking notes on a large pad. Colonel Snitkonoy was well aware that the chief inspector was almost certainly drawing pictures of houses, people, books, flowers, statues, or even the window behind the colonel. The colonel had purposely sat the black man in the blue suit at the end of the table where he would not see such inattentive behavior.

To Pankov’s left sat Major Gregorovich, a thick man in his late forties who survived by displaying absolute public loyalty to the Wolfhound on all issues while secretly reporting on the Office of Special Investigation to officers in other bureaus jealous of the increasing power of the Wolfhound’s small but highly successful staff. Gregorovich, who had given up wearing any uniform other than a brown business suit, still held a faint hope that if the Wolfhound ever faltered, those to whom he had passed on information would wish Gregorovich to take over the directorship. It would not simply be a reward. Gregorovich was too smart to settle for that. It would be the expedient, self-serving thing for them to do.

“Chief Inspector,” the Wolfhound said. “Your report.”

Rostnikov put down his pad, and though it was upside down and a dozen feet away, the Wolfhound could see that the drawing Rostnikov had been intent on was the face of a woman with billowing hair.

“Four new investigations begun,” said Rostnikov. “Twelve ongoing, five closed with arrests.”

“New investigations only,” the Wolfhound said, looking at the clock.

Rostnikov seemed not to notice and went on. “Alexei Porvinovich. Owns several businesses, launders foreign money, and makes bribes to get permits. Suspected ties to several mafias, particularly the Afghan veterans. He was abducted on the street in a dark Mercedes-Benz by two men with automatic weapons. Both abductors wore ski masks. No body yet found. Wife reports ransom call. Three million American dollars.”

“Three million …” Pankov said, and then shut up after a stern look from the colonel.

“Go on, Chief Inspector,” said the Wolfhound.

“Another victim of an attack in the Strogino area,” Rostnikov said. “Face and head crushed by pavement pieces, ribs broken, organs ruptured. This is the eleventh such killing in less than a year.”

“If you think it is worth our attention,” the Wolfhound said, “then assign someone.”

“I will assign Inspectors Tkach and Zelach.”

“Fine, fine, what else?” asked the Wolfhound.

“Liaison with tax police on information provided by paid informant who led them to a hoard of valuable artifacts. Inspectors Karpo and Timofeyeva report that sometime between the discovery of the items by the tax police and the next morning all of the articles were removed. The estimated value of the find, according to Inspector Karpo, may be in excess of one billion dollars.”

“One bill-” Pankov started, and immediately shut up.

“We take these cases,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. “Gentlemen, this presents the proper moment for me to introduce our guest, Mr. Craig Hamilton.”

Rostnikov, Pankov, and Gregorovich now openly looked at the black man for the first time. Mr. Craig Hamilton looked at them, gave a small smile, and said in perfect and quite precise Russian, “It is a pleasure to meet you and an honor to be invited to your morning meeting.”

The man learned his Russian in a good, intensive language school, thought Rostnikov.

“Mr. Hamilton is with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the colonel. “He is here to observe our methods, help if he can in ongoing investigations, and prepare a report for his own superiors and ours. Mr. Hamilton is an attorney and an accountant with thirteen years of investigative experience. I am assigning him to you, Inspector Rostnikov.”

Rostnikov put the finishing touches on the drawing before him and put down his pencil.

“I will, with your approval, take the abduction myself and assign Elena Timofeyeva to the missing artifacts. Perhaps Agent Hamilton will be able to give us some assistance.”

“I would prefer that you or Inspector Karpo handle the missing treasures,” said the Wolfhound. “Inspector Elena Timofeyeva is lacking in experience.”

“I have taken the liberty of assigning Inspector Karpo to the street killings yesterday,” said Rostnikov.