Stuart Kaminsky - A Fine Red Rain

"May we come in for a moment, Comrade?" Rostnikov asked politely. Both were quite sober and serious, yet neither gave the impression that an emergency was in progress.

"I'd like to know…" Khabolov began and stopped when Rostnikov reached into his pocket and pulled out an oblong package wrapped in a brown paper bag. The object looked like a small book. Khabolov looked at both policemen sternly, discerned nothing, and took the package. He opened it and extracted something he recognized, a videotape.

"What is this?"

"A videotape," Rostnikov said.

Khabolov could see that it was a videotape. For a moment he thought he might still be dreaming. The scene made as much sense as his dream about Helsinki.

"We think," Rostnikov continued, "that you should look at it."

"Now?" Khabolov asked them.

"Now would be a very good time, or you could wait till later," said Rostnikov, letting his eyes focus beyond Khabolov on the interior of the room.

"What is it? Some murder evidence? Inspector Karpo included in his report on the apprehension of the prostitute killer that you had been instrumental in… It has nothing to do with that case?"

Rostnikov shook his head no, and Tkach remained at near-attention.

"I'm running out of patience," said Khabolov, bouncing the videotape in his hand as if it were growing warm. "Very well. Come in, but mark you, this had better be important."

Rostnikov and Tkach entered the room, and Khabolov closed the door quietly behind them.

"Come and be quiet. My wife is sleeping in there."

Neither man had known Khabolov had a wife, but mat did not surprise or interest them as much as the brown carpeting on the floor. Not a rug in the center of the room, but real carpeting. Sasha Tkach wondered if the apartment had more than one bedroom.

Khabolov led them across the room to a sofa facing a television set with a video machine on a table next to it.

"Better be important," Khabolov warned, turning on his machines and inserting the tape. A static-filled image came on with a flamelike sound and Khabolov plopped on the sofa to watch. He did not invite the two policemen to sit. They stood and watched the screen.

"It had better be important," Khabolov said again. "Murder evidence or"

"Profiteering," Rostnikov supplied. "Black market, probably. We think it important enough to consider turning over to the KGB. We thought you might be the one to do it."

"I see," said Khabolov, and for an instant he thought he did see. These two wanted to get on his good side. They had stumbled onto something important and had brought it to him. Rostnikov wanted his job back. Tkach wanted some assurance about his security. In exchange they were giving him something he could turn over to the KGB. And then the static stopped and a picture came on the screen. It was a bit dark. The camera jiggled but the picture was clear. There was no mistaking the interior of the Gorgasali trailer. And there were the Gorgasali brothers. Someone said something on the tape. Khabolov couldn't make it out. And then a figure came through the trailer door and Kha bolov leaped up from the sofa. He was looking at himself. He plunged his hands into the pockets of the robe and came up with a handkerchief. He threw it at the nearby table and missed. Before the Khabolov hi the picture could speak, the Khabolov in the apartment reached over and snapped the television off. "You are playing a dangerous game, you two," Khabolov said, retrieving the tape from the machine and plunging it into his now-empty pocket. "You may keep that one," Rostnikov said. "We have another copy." "Blackmail? You are daring to blackmail me?" Khabolov said, looking at Tkach, who looked at Rostnikov.

"It would appear so," said Rostnikov.

"I'll go to the Chief Procurator, tell him it's a fake, tell him you two are in on this. If I lose my job, you lose yours. If I go to jail, you go. Especially you, Tkach. You were the one who made contact with those two."

Khabolov pointed to the blank television screen to indicate that it held the Gorgasali brothers.

"Perhaps so, perhaps not," Rostnikov said. "The Chief Procurator might believe you. He might not. It might be reasonable to hear our terms before you try to make threats." "I don't deal with blackmailers," Khabolov said defiantly, but there was no backbone in his defiance. As he spoke, he pulled the sash of the flannel robe tightly around his waist as if he were suddenly cold. "Then, perhaps, those are the only criminals with whom you do not deal," sighed Rostnikov. "Or at least have not dealt with till now." "Say what you have to say and then get out," Khabolov said, looking from one man to the other with his sternest glare. It seemed to have no effect. "I'll decide what to do with you."

"The terms are simple," said Rostnikov. "May I sit? My teg…" "Sit, sit, sit, sit," said Khabolov with irritation. Rostnikov moved to a straight-backed wooden chair against the wall and sat.

"Keep your video machine, the tapes you have," said Rostnikov. "Destroy all records of your dealings with the Gorgasali brothers and never visit them again. No investigation of them was made. Inspector Tkach did not visit them. He did not talk to you about them."

"I'm listening," said Khabolov.

"Good," said Rostnikov. "If Sasha Tkach is mentioned in a report or involved in any way with your dealings in this or any other illegal matter, the tape goes to the Chief Procurator."

"And for yourself, eh?" Khabolov asked, shaking his head. "You want to be transferred back to the Procurator's Office."

"No," said Rostnikov. "You haven't the power to grant such a transfer. The decision was made above you and I have no desire to return. But a request for permanent transfer of Inspectors Tkach and Karpo to MVD investigation under Colonel Snitkonoy may be coming through and we would appreciate your doing your utmost to see to it that it is approved."

"Tkach?" Khabolov snapped.

"I have nothing to add," said Sasha, meeting Khabolov's eyes.

The deputy procurator bounced once on his bare feet and decided that he could live with this. It would be better, under the circumstances, to get rid of Tkach and Karpo, two spies for Rostnikov. Maybe someday in some way he would be able to get the original tape. The terms were ridiculous. They could have had much more, but, Khabolov realized, that was precisely why Rostnikov had asked for no more. It would be very easy to grant this, easy and relatively painless.

'I'll mink about this and decide what to do with you two," he said sternly. "Now get out."

"Be quiet out there," his wife shouted from the bedroom. "I've got to get up in an hour."

"Yes, my krasee' v/iy, my beauty," Khabolov called, and then he turned to the two men.

Rostnikov stood and walked across the room on the silent carpet with Sasha close behind. Khabolov marched ahead of them to open the door. They exited and Khabolov closed the door quietly behind them without another word.

"I think" Sasha began, but Rostnikov put his finger to his lips to quiet him.

Sasha nodded in understanding and looked at the door. He was tempted to turn around and knock in the hope that Khabolov had his ear pressed to the other side. The two men walked to the stairway and did not speak till they were down the two flights and out onto Zubovsky Boulevard.

"We won," Tkach said softly.

"More or less," Rostnikov agreed with a shrug.

"He won't destroy the Gorgasali file," said Tkach.

"Would you?"

"No," Sasha agreed as they walked. The morning sky was quickly darkening, and rain had been predicted by both the radio and Sasha's mother earlier that morning.

"It gives him the feeling that he has a secret, something with which to hold us at bay," said Rostnikov. "He won't destroy you if it means destroying himself. And besides, in a few weeks, a month, someone might pay a visit some afternoon to the deputy procurator's office or his home and the file on the Gorgasalis might disappear."