Stuart Kaminsky - Blood and Rubles

They got into the elevator, and Rostnikov pushed a button.

“Because he’s black?” asked Hamilton, his hands at his sides.

“Of course,” said Rostnikov. “I have not seen him except in a tape of some movie called The Mighty Flynn.”

“‘Quinn,’” Hamilton corrected. “I hope that when I retire, Denzel Washington will star in the movie of my life.”

“You expect such a movie to be made?”

“Never can tell,” said Hamilton.

Rostnikov didn’t smile. He liked this FBI man with a sense of humor.

The elevator hummed smoothly to a stop. Finding the apartment was no problem. Here another uniformed policeman, a little older than the one downstairs, faced them suspiciously, weapon ready.

“I’m Inspector Rostnikov,” Rostnikov said. “This is American FBI agent Hamilton.”

The policeman lowered his weapon and stepped back.

“Were you ordered here by your district commander?” Rostnikov asked.

“Yes, Inspector,” said the policeman.

Rostnikov knocked at the door. “These must be important people,” he said. “In an undermanned district two officers are assigned to protect the apartment after the victim has been kidnapped.”

“His wife and brother …” Hamilton said.

“If a plumber had been kidnapped,” said Rostnikov softly so that the policeman standing guard would not hear him, “there would be no police-only perhaps a friend of his with a wrench and a bad temper, which might be more effective.”

The door opened. The man who opened it resembled the file photograph Rostnikov had in his pocket. He wore dark slacks and a definitely disheveled white shirt, conservative blue tie, and a loose-fitting sport jacket.

“Inspector Rostnikov,” said Rostnikov, without showing his ID. “And this is Agent Hamilton of the FBI. And you are the brother of Alexei Porvinovich.”

“Yes, how did you know?” The man backed away to let them in.

“I am the Steve Carella of the Moscow police,” said Rostnikov, looking around the apartment.

The room was large and modern, with white carpeting. The furniture was mostly white, with black enameled tables. There were two large paintings on the wall. One depicted a pale woman in a clinging black dress reclining on a red chaise longue while an attentive young man in a suit knelt before her, holding up a burning lighter for the indifferent woman, who held a cigarette and holder between two fingers of her left hand. The second painting seemed to have been done by the same artist. It, too, featured a pale woman, this time in white, surrounded by three attentive young men. The woman had her head back and was laughing insincerely. The paintings fascinated Rostnikov because of the woman who sat before him on one of the white chairs. She wore a black suit, and her cigarette, not in a holder, was already lit. She could have been the model for either of the women in the paintings.

“Madame Porvinovich,” Rostnikov said.

“Anna Ivanovna Porvinovich,” she said, her voice low. “I heard you introduce yourselves to Yevgeniy. Please sit. Yevgeniy will get you drinks if you-”

“Cold water would be fine with me,” said Hamilton.

“Do you perhaps have a Pepsi-Cola?” asked Rostnikov, looking for the least uncomfortable chair.

“Yes,” said Anna Porvinovich.

Behind them Yevgeniy left the room.

“I gather that you have not yet found Alexei,” Anna Porvinovich said.

Rostnikov tried to keep his eyes from the paintings. “We have just begun to look,” he said. “Shall we wait till his brother returns before …?”

“As you wish,” Anna Porvinovich said. She put out her cigarette in an ornate glass ashtray, looked at Hamilton, and said, “You speak Russian?”

“Yes,” he said. “Do you speak English?”

“No, but some French. I’m learning. Perhaps English would be more interesting,” she said, her dark eyes examining the FBI agent.

“You do not seem particularly upset by the unfortunate disappearance of your husband,” Hamilton said.

Yevgeniy returned with a tray on which there were three glasses. He placed the tray on the small table in front of Anna Porvinovich and sat next to her, handing out drinks. The possible widow had a sparkling mineral water with a slice of lime, a fruit Rostnikov rarely saw.

“People handle distress in different ways,” she said. “I prefer to keep up appearances and my sense of dignity. Yevgeniy, as you can see, is a nervous wreck.”

“My brother …” he began, and then trailed off.

Rostnikov took a sip of his Pepsi and nodded his approval. Hamilton didn’t touch his ice water.

“You have received a ransom call,” said Rostnikov.

“A call, yes,” said Anna Porvinovich. “Yesterday. A man demanded three million American dollars by Friday or Alexei would be killed. Actually, he said Alexei would be beheaded and thrown in the street. He put Alexei on the phone. He said I should do as I was told. I said I would if it were possible and he would tell me how I was to get three million dollars. Alexei was understandably distraught. He said I knew how to get the money.”

“Do you?” asked Hamilton.

Anna Ivanovna Porvinovich shrugged.

“Did the man who called have an accent?” asked Rostnikov.

She thought about this a moment and said, “No. But he did not sound well educated.”

“Tell us what he said,” said Rostnikov. He opened a notepad. Hamilton produced a small tape recorder.

Anna Porvinovich looked at the tape recorder and then back at Hamilton before going on. “‘We have your husband. We want three million dollars American by Friday. We know you can get it. He told us you know where it is. Bring it in a suitcase to the art museum in Vladimir before noon tomorrow. Place the suitcase behind the bushes to the left of the entrance. Be sure no one is watching you. Then go into the museum and stay there for one hour.’ Then he put Alexei on the phone, and Alexei said, ‘Do what the man told you, Anna.’ Then they hung up. That’s all.”

“How did your husband sound?” Rostnikov asked.

“Sound?”

“Was he frightened?”

“Resigned,” she said. “I don’t think Alexei believes he will live through this regardless of what Yevgeniy and I do, but I intend to deliver the money and hope for the best.”

“We would like to wire your telephone in case they call back,” Rostnikov said. He wondered if he could get a recording device through Pankov.

Anna Porvinovich shrugged and picked up her drink. She examined the rising bubbles for a moment and then drank, her eyes back on Hamilton.

“We would like to mark the bills and put a homing device in the suitcase full of money,” said Rostnikov.

“Whatever you like,” she said. She put down her drink.

“You think he is dead?” asked Rostnikov, watching her face.

“No,” said Yevgeniy vehemently.

“Yes,” said Anna Porvinovich evenly. “In the United States,” she said to Hamilton, “what would you do?”

“I would think that your husband is still alive and will remain so until they get the money and feel they are safe. Then they will kill him. Chief Inspector Rostnikov hopes to find them after they pick up the money and before they feel safe.”

“Why won’t they simply let him go?” asked Yevgeniy, holding his hands to his mouth.

Hamilton looked at Rostnikov, who nodded to him.

“Why risk it?” Hamilton said. “Mr. Porvinovich may know what his captors look like, or he may be able to recognize the place he’s been taken to. It would be an unsafe risk to let him live.”

Rostnikov shifted his leg and tried not to wince as he said, “Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”

“Alexei knows so many people,” Anna Porvinovich said, reaching for a cigarette and looking at Hamilton.