Stalin’s Ghost (9 page)

“Unless there’s more than one hunchback there shouldn’t be any problem.”

I
gor Borodin sat sweating in a cage of bulletproof glass. He had gone to fat since his OMON days, his suit stretched to the breaking point, and he had shaved badly. Winter sunlight sifted from high windows onto the emblem of a double eagle above the judge’s bench and filtered down to the jury box, the advocates’ tables and, separated by a wooden rail, the public. The colors were the pastels and wood tones of a Swedish kitchen and the smell of sawdust and plaster was a reminder that much of the courthouse was still under construction. Arkady tiptoed to the last available seat, next to an olive-skinned woman in a black dress and shawl. A row back a short man with a grizzled beard was making notes. Half of the public section was taken over by men in the blue and black camouflage suits of Black Berets, a corps of hard individuals whose faces expressed impatience with the judicial process. One man was missing an arm, another’s face was seared a slick violet and some simply had the hollowed-out look of war veterans. The room was overheated and most people held their coats on their laps; one of the Black Berets had opened his shirt enough to display the tattoo of an OMON tiger. Nikolai Isakov and Marat Urman had the place of honor in the front row. Isakov showed no reaction to the sight of Arkady, although Arkady had the impression of intense blue eyes watching through a mask. Urman saw Arkady and shook his head.

It was the second day of argument. The facts were that Makhmud Saidov, twenty-seven, married, with one child, had delivered a pizza to the apartment of Borodin, thirty-three, housepainter, divorced. Saidov expected a tip and was disappointed. While waiting for the elevator Saidov wondered aloud when Russians would learn that pizza deliverymen around the world depended on tips. Borodin reopened his door. Words were exchanged. Borodin left the door a second time, returned with his service pistol and shot Saidov fatally through the head.

The defense was that Saidov had verbally abused Borodin, a war veteran suffering from post-traumatic stress. While insults were not sufficient excuse for murder, they had triggered a reaction in Borodin that he had no control of. In fact, according to a psychiatrist, Borodin fired the gun in what he sincerely considered to be self-defense. He didn’t see a pizza deliveryman; he saw a terrorist who had to be stopped.

“But he was not a terrorist,” whispered the woman to Arkady. “My Makhmud was not a terrorist.”

Borodin took off his jacket. He was rapt, as if hearing a story new to him. From the public seats his old comrades sent him thumbs-up and the citizens in the jury box were thoroughly hooked. Juries were a reform urged by the West. Defense attorneys had always been supplicants, judges omnipotent and prosecutors ran the show. The show had a new audience now.

Borodin’s attorney called Isakov to the witness podium, established the detective’s illustrious record as a captain in the Black Berets and asked about Borodin’s. Isakov’s answer was not necessarily to the point, but it was effective.

“I was Sergeant Borodin’s commanding officer for ten months. In that time OMON spearheaded Russian forces in Chechnya, which meant constant engagement with rebels. Sometimes with four hours sleep out of forty-eight, sometimes so far ahead of logistical support that we went days without food, fighting an enemy that hid in the population and observed none of the rules of war. The enemy could be a hardened soldier, a religious fanatic or a woman transporting a bomb in a child’s stroller. We made friends where we could and tried to build lines of trust and communication with village elders; however, we learned from experience to trust no one except the men in our own unit. In ten months in those conditions, Borodin never failed to carry out an order. I can’t ask more from a man.”

Borodin sat up for the highest accolade in his life and opened his collar. At the base of his neck was a tattoo of the OMON shield. Arkady felt the dry swallowing of the veterans and the way they leaned forward to catch every word.

“He was involved in the famous Battle of Sunzha Bridge?”

“More a skirmish, I’d say, but yes, he was.”

“More than a skirmish, I’m sure. Could you recount for the judge and jury the events of that day?”

“Our assignment that day was to control and check traffic at the bridge. An attack in force was not anticipated and when we heard about the terrorist raid on the OMON field hospital it was too late to bring up reinforcements.”

“But you stood firm.”

“We carried out our orders.”

“Sergeant Borodin stood firm.”

“Yes.”

“Against odds of eight to one.”

“Yes.”

“In that fight, was there any communication between the terrorists and your men? Not radio communication, but shouts or insults.”

“Not from us. We were too few and didn’t want to give away our positions. The Chechens shouted a number of insults.”

“Such as?”

“‘Russians, you came a long way to die!’ ‘Ivan, who is seeing your wife?’ although they didn’t say ‘seeing.’ ‘Dogs will eat your bones.’ Things of that nature.”

“Again, how many terrorists were there?”

“Approximately fifty.”

“How many in your squad?”

“Six including me.”

“And including Borodin?”

“Certainly, Borodin too.”

“Under attack, outnumbered, with bullets flying, Igor Borodin heard, ‘Dogs will eat your bones.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I refer to the transcript of the testimony of Borodin’s neighbors, who heard a heated argument on the landing and Makhmud Saidov shout, ‘May dogs eat your bones!’ At which point, Borodin snapped. He was again Sergeant Borodin back at the Sunzha River, protecting his country.”

The woman in the shawl turned her dark eyes to Arkady. She whispered, “And then he ate the pizza.”

Lunch break.

Ginsberg was a short, angular figure in a black coat and cap who walked with his huge head leading the rest of his body. Arkady followed him out of the courthouse and down a raw path between saplings with roots wrapped in burlap to a sidewalk ice cream cart. Up close, the reporter’s beard and brows were a disheveled gray, his eyes slightly scrambled and Arkady realized that the man was drunk. At noon. Arkady had a chocolate ice cream cone; Ginsberg had an orange popsicle and a cigarette. They ate as snow swirled around them, like a pair of Eskimos, Arkady thought.

Ginsberg said, “Give me fresh air, nicotine, sugar and artificial color. A cappuccino wouldn’t hurt. Although it is important to keep foam and artificial color out of the beard so as not to be too comical. What do you want, Investigator Renko?”

“A little information.”

“A little information is a dangerous thing.” Ginsberg slipped off the curb and would have fallen if Arkady hadn’t grabbed his sleeve.

“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.”