Stuart Kaminsky - A Fine Red Rain

"Good," said Khabolov. "The names are especially important."

"There will be names," promised Felix.

The two brothers seemed nervous, but nervous was the only way Khabolov had ever seen them, nervous and frightened, which was just the way he wanted them.

"A rough inventory now," Khabolov said, moving behind the table and sitting with his pad and pen. A rough inventory is what he got. Ten minutes later the deputy procurator said "Good" and stood up.

"Thank you, Comrade," Osip said. "If there is anything, anything…"

"Yes. I will have to take two video players and a television set, plus twenty, no, twenty-five, tapes. I've written the titles on this sheet."

He tore off a sheet from his notebook and handed it to Osip, who handed it to Felix. Khabolov closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

"May we ask? I mean you are going to do… something with these tapes and the machines," said Felix through a close-toothed smile.

Khabolov adjusted his glasses and gave the man a withering glare, a glare over his nose that he had spent nearly twenty years developing, a glare that said, "How dare an insignificant bit of cheese like you ask a question like that of someone as important as I?"

"I just…" Felix whispered, backing away.

Khabolov took a step toward him, his eyes meeting the frightened, watery eyes of the elder Gorgasali brother.

"The white Chaika outside is mine. The trunk is open. Put it all in the trunk," he said.

Felix gulped and nodded to his brother. Khabolov did not remove his eyes from Felix's, but he heard Osip clumsily open cabinets, move, find.

"What I do with this," Khabolov said, patting the notebook in his pocket, "and with you, is entirely up to me. I can use you, your equipment, your tapes, in any way I choose. To catch economic traitors to the revolution"- with this he paused to make it clear who two such economic traitors might be" to give to my friends, or to use myself. Each day of freedom for the two of you is one more day than you should have."

Felix closed his eyes, opened his mouth, opened his eyes, and in a voice filled with fear croaked, "But you would be in trouble if you used any of this for your own profit and Osip and I told about it during an inquiry."

Khabolov smiled, a small rodent smile that he thought made him look like the villain in a decadent French play he had once seen. He enjoyed a small display of rebellion, one that could easily be crushed.

"I would call you a liar," Khabolov said, grabbing Felix's tie. "I would call you a liar and accuse you of the most obscene of crimes, crimes for which I would produce great mounds of evidence, sacks and boxes of evidence. You would both choke on the evidence. Do you understand? Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, yes, yes," croaked Felix, his white hair falling over his eyes.

Khabolov let go of Felix's tie, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his palms to cleanse them from the contact, and replaced the handkerchief without removing his eyes from the cowering peddler. Khabolov was proud of his performance and thought of how nice it would be to have someone witness it who would really appreciate his artistry.

"Ready," said Osip, his voice even more broken and frightened than that of his brother.

Khabolov turned and looked at the two video machines and the box on top of one of them. The box was filled with tapes. A television set's dead white eye peeked out from behind the machines and tapes.

"Good," said Khabolov, looking at his watch. "I've got to get back to my office. I'll return when I need information or more material. Meanwhile, you prepare a detailed inventory."

"Yes, Comrade," said Felix.

"Yes, Comrade," agreed Osip, who bent to pick up a machine and the box of tapes.

Five minutes later, the load safely locked in the trunk of the car, Khabolov was on his way back to Petrovka. A caseload awaited his careful eye.

"He's gone," sighed Osip from the curtained window as he watched the white Chaika move into traffic and hurry away.

The curtain at the end of the trailer parted and Sasha Tkach stepped out.

"I hope I did it correctly," Sasha said.

"If you did what we showed you, it was fine, fine," whispered Osip, finding a bottle in his drawer and pouring himself a large glass with trembling hands. "It has to be fine. I would rather go to Lubyanka than go through that again."

"I wouldn't," said Felix, reaching for the bottle.

"You did well," said Sasha, "very well."

"You'd like a drink?" Felix asked, turning to the detective with an outstretched hand containing a drink.

"No," said Sasha. It wasn't that he didn't want the drink. Not at all. What he didn't want was the Gorgasali brothers to see that his hands were trembling every bit as much as theirs.

Sarah wasn't home when Rostnikov arrived. He didn't expect her to be. She would be working late, till seven. He would simply go to the second-hand foreign book store on Kachalov Street and wait for her outside. He would smile and tell her that they were going to the circus. She would give him a look that told him she was not going to be able to think about circuses and clowns, that all she could think about was their son, that Josef was in Afghanistan, that madmen were shooting at him, trying to kill him. Her eyes would show that, seek the same fear in his, and he would let the fear show. Then things would be Tall right. She would nod. They would go to the circus and eat later, afterwards, talking about the acts, about their memories as children. And then she would remember, if she had not by then, the times Porfiry Petrovich had taken the family to the circus. She would remember the little boy's cackling laughter, open-mouthed awe. Then she would weep just a little and they would go to sleep.

There would be no time later to lift his weights. He made himself a plate of cheese, cold meat pie, onions with vinegar, and a slice of bread. There was a half bottle of white wine in the cabinet over the sink. He poured himself a full glass and placed plate and drink on the table near the window, where he could see them while he lifted. Then he changed into his sweatpants and the T-shirt with the words "Moscow Senior Championship 1983," set out his mat, chair, and weights, and began his routine.

He worked, as always, slowly, deliberately, curling with both hands as he sat, pumping with both hands as he lay on the floor. He was not conscious of the smell of cheese as he began to sweat, but he sensed it. His concentration went to the bar, the weights clanking. He saw nothing, thought nothing. The smell of the food flowed through him as he rolled, moved, lifted, grunted. His T-shirt was soaked through in ten minutes. In twenty minutes his face and neck were itching. He hardly noticed. He was one with the moving weights, the routine. It was at times like this that Rostnikov often lost count, did too much, and only caught himself when his eyes happened to fall on the ticking clock next to his trophy. But this time he did not lose himself. He came out slowly on the last series of repetitions, let himself feel the tension in his stomach as he sat forward with the 150-pound weight behind his back, let himself feel the rivulets of sweat weave their way down his stomach and through the hairs of his crotch. He gave himself a final count, though he knew, could feel, that he was almost finished. He made the sit-ups, eased the weight back to the blanket, and lay back, looking up at the ceiling and the rivers of cracks he could never remember but that came back to him familiarly and clearly each time he was in this position. Rostnikov listened to himself breathe, tightened his stomach, and sat up. The early afternoon light through the window fell on the plate of food and the wineglass, turning them into a still life that pleased Porfiry Petrovich as he put his towel around his neck and lifted himself up awkwardly. The leg was still a bit stiff from Drozhkin's punishment, but it was coming back. A few minutes in the shower and the food would help greatly.