Martin Smith - Stalin’s Ghost

“You wrote an article for Izvestia on the battle that helped make Nikolai Isakov a national hero.” Looking into Ginsberg’s eyes, Arkady saw intelligence try to surface.

“Yes.”

“You interviewed him?”

“I traveled with his unit for a month on his first tour of duty. I was the only journalist along. He said regular-size journalists took up too much room.”

“The two of you became friendly?”

“Russians generally have two reliable reactions: beat a Jew and laugh at a hunchback. Which makes me doubly vulnerable. Isakov was free of all that.”

“So you were friends.”

“Yes.”

“You admired him.”

“He was a well-read man. Not what you’d expect from a Black Beret in a combat zone. Of course, I admired him and now he’s a candidate for the Russian Patriots. He’s changed.”

“I thought as much, so it struck me as odd that today you weren’t sitting with him or even offering each other a few words. You ignored each other. Why is that?”

“That’s your question? What is my personal relationship now with Detective Isakov?”

“Him and Marat Urman.”

“You want my official opinion? Isakov and Urman are Black Beret veterans and respected Russian Patriots, and the Battle of Sunzha Bridge exemplified the fighting spirit of OMON. How’s that?”

“Then why did OMON keep Isakov at the rank of captain?” Arkady asked. “Why wasn’t he promoted after a victory like that? What was wrong?”

“Ask Major Agronsky. He was head of the commendation panel.”

Ginsberg swayed off the curb and laughed. “Maybe Agronsky could count. Can you? Fifty rebels against six Black Berets. No, I never said it. Salute the red flag. Oorah! Oorah! Oorah!”

The entrance to the new courthouse was plate glass; Arkady saw Black Berets gathered in the lobby. Bottles of beer appeared from nowhere. Alcohol was banned on the courthouse grounds, but the guards had made a sensible retreat. From the lobby Urman returned Arkady’s gaze.

Ginsberg saw Urman too. “Marat calls me a dwarf. What I really am is abridged. An abridged version of a reporter, not only in height but in what I write. They say only the grave can correct the hunchback. Not true! My editors correct me all the time. And the editors say that in these troubled times we need heroes to defend us from terrorists. We need riot police even if that means that OMON runs riot and beats every ‘black’ they find on the street, a ‘black’ being anyone darker than delicate Russian pink. Chechens, Caucasians, Africans, a Jew or two. I’m not saying that OMON is following orders, no, worse, following the darker impulses of the Kremlin. So some blood flows and the police don’t touch OMON because Black Berets are the police. Although, a person might ask how good these supermen are. As for rescuing hostages, remember the school siege in Beslan? OMON botched that operation and hundreds of schoolchildren died. Hundreds!”

“Do you want to go someplace and sit?”

“No. I’m not saying they’re all rotten. A lot are good. He was the best.” Ginsberg nodded toward the lobby, where Isakov had arrived and seemed to be offering calming words. “All in their black-and-blues here. In Chechnya they looked like pirates with beards, bandannas, tattoos, and Isakov was the pirate captain. They loved Isakov.”

“But there’s more?”

“There’s always more. That’s war. It’s like being dipped in acid. Sooner or later it gets to you. It eats you.” Ginsberg lit one cigarette off the butt end of another, a delicate operation. “What’s your interest in Isakov?”

Envy, Arkady thought. He said, “Isakov’s name came up in an investigation. It doesn’t necessarily incriminate him.”

“Is it an internal matter of the militia?”

“I can’t say anything more.”

“If it is, let me warn you, Isakov has powerful friends.”

“Let’s just say I want the truth.”

Ginsberg stepped back to take in Arkady whole. “A seeker of truth? I was afraid of that. You’ll want a unicorn next. There is no truth. No two people agree on anything; there are only versions. I am a prime example. I can’t even agree with myself. For example, the Battle of Sunzha Bridge. One version describes a stand by six Black Berets against fifty Chechen terrorists. In this version the battle ranged up and down the Sunzha, the opposite sides firing across the river until the Chechens beat an ignominious retreat. The end result: fourteen rebels killed by our sharpshooters and only one of our men more than scratched. The second version says that of the fourteen dead rebels, eight were shot in the chest or the head at point blank range, two in the back, two with food in their mouths. And not a wasted bullet. Unbelievable marksmanship. No nonfatal shots in the arms or legs. In other words, in the second version, what took place at the Sunzha Bridge was not a battle but an execution of any Chechens who happened to be in Isakov’s camp that day. It was revenge. It was a slaughter.”

“Were the Chechens armed?”

“No doubt, Chechens usually are. And if they weren’t, Isakov’s squad had been searching houses and confiscating arms for weeks. They had plenty of weapons to add.”

“Were there any surviving witnesses?”

“No. I arrived by helicopter minutes after the killing because I was scheduled to ride with Isakov’s unit again. I’d been invited by Isakov personally. As we approached I could see Marat Urman directing Borodin and the others running around a truck. Half the Chechens were around a campfire. It wasn’t like any firefight I ever saw before. When we came in to land Marat waved us off. They canceled from the ground. No interviews, no joining the squad. It was a complete turnaround. Suddenly even I took up too much room.”

“What about the rest of the squad? There were six Black Berets at the bridge. Isakov, Urman and Borodin make three. Who were the other three?”

“I don’t know. They were new to me. Men were being rotated in and out.”

“Were they here today?”

“No, but I have their names in my notes.”

“You kept the notes?”

“A reporter always keeps his notes.”

“Did you ever hear about death squads in Chechnya?”

Ginsberg had to laugh. “Chechnya was nothing but death squads. That was how soldiers got by.”

“Russian troops hired themselves out?”

“When necessary. But in that bloodbath there’ll never be a charge. We’re the winners and we don’t hang our dirty laundry in public. If you are after Isakov you’d better act fast because if he wins this election for the Senate he’ll be immune. You’d have to catch him standing over a body, a knife in his hand and blood pooling at his feet, to arrest him.”

Arkady asked in as flat a voice as possible, “Do you remember, when you were in Chechnya, hearing about a doctor named Eva Kazka?”

“No, although there was a doctor on the wrong side.”

“What do you mean?”

“On the Chechen side. I never got her name. She didn’t take up arms but she worked in the hospital in Grozny. They say she showed up on a motorcycle; can you believe that? We were shelling the city and there wasn’t much hospital left, but supposedly she treated rebels and Russians alike. Then she disappeared. OMON looked for her but never found her. Maybe she was a fantasy.”

The number of Black Berets in the lobby was thinning out, moving back to the courtroom. Isakov and Urman were gone. Arkady was late for picking up Platonov, and here he was out in the snow with a small, crooked drunk.

Ginsberg said, “I have pictures from the helicopter. Just two.”

“Can I see them?”

“Why not? Mayakovsky Square at eleven. Is that agreeable?” He took Arkady’s card, dropped it, clumsily picked it out of the snow. “What do you think? Do you think the pizza deliveryman was a terrorist? I hope so because I got him killed by not turning in Isakov or Marat or Borodin.” He stared vacantly at the pile of saplings. Anyone could see that they had just been tossed off the back of a truck. “But if it’s my word against Isakov’s, who’s going to believe me? Marat said if he heard I was telling stories, he was going to come and straighten me. Apparently some people he straightens, some people he bends. I deserve it.” He snapped out of his reverie. “Anyway, there you are, two versions of the truth from one man. You choose.”