The Case of the General's Thumb (12 page)

Viktor entered Crook's Crook Prorokov on his diagram of Bronitsky connections, then lit the gas to boil a kettle.

Ira appeared in the half-open door, barefoot and in her nightdress.

“Shouldn't you get some sleep?” she whispered.

“Just going to.”

Nik stood at the window with a glass of beer, gazing gloomily down at the empty, rainy, Euskirchen street, thinking of Tanya and Volodya.

“Let me have twenty,” said Sakhno.

Nik pulled two notes from his shirt pocket and passed them over.

“It's boring here. I'm going for a drive.”

“Fine.”

The door banged, and a little later there was a hoot as the hearse turned the corner.

Nik was about to boil water for coffee when the phone rang.

“How did you make out with Pogodinsky?”

“He's hanged himself.”

“So you overdid it.”

“No, all went smoothly.”

“Were you seen when you found him hanged?”

“No.”

“Leave any evidence of your visit?”

“No.”

“Right. Stay put. Ring you shortly. No need to mention my call to your friend, when he gets back,” the voice added, leaving Nik to conclude that they were being observed.

When the man next rang it was to ask if they had brought back any papers.

“Sakhno did,” said Nik.

“Have you seen what?”

“No.”

An accusing sigh greeted this admission.

“Go now and see! You've got twenty minutes. Whatever it is – notebooks, chequebooks, credit cards – have it ready by the phone.”

The carrier bag was by the radiator, so, too, a saucer of water and the tortoise.

The carrier bag yielded two tins of black caviar, Produce of Astrakhan; a generous portion of salami; a bottle of Smirnoff and one of Absolut. The rest was indeed personal stuff: two notebooks, a chequebook, letters, a fat pocketbook and two sets of colour photographs. The notebooks were in German and Russian, the photographs of people whose faces meant nothing to him.

Sakhno's professionalism in making this collection came as something of a surprise. Nothing had been said about seizing documents, and it hadn't occurred to Nik to do so.

“Well, what have we got?” asked the telephone voice.

Nik reported.

“Got a pen? Write down these names: Slonimsky, Kurz, Weinberg. Any mention of them, make a note. I'll call back.”

The next twenty minutes Nik spent searching the diaries, and when the man rang, was able to give phone numbers for Kurz and Weinberg.

“Got the tablets still? Good,” the man said, and rang off.

Viktor set off for an afternoon walk, giving his red Mazda a glance and the guard a friendly nod as he went, and made his way to the Shelkovichnaya Street gastronom where he and Zanozin had been for a beer. Zanozin was now on temporary loan to Ratko, assisting in a case involving arms sales.

Viktor took his large coffee over to a stand-at table in the window and was watching the people pass in the sunlit street, when Georgiy rang.

“What's new?”

“You tell me.”

“I'm going to. Listen. The day after tomorrow you fly to London
for a conference on money-laundering. I'm having a passport delivered to you at the office by 6.00 this evening.”

“I don't speak English.”

“There'll be an interpreter.”

“But what's the point?”

“It's a three-day conference. You have a six-day visa. So the point is to have a full and frank talk with Bronitsky junior. I'll ring and brief you further. This is work, not a jolly, so get yourself into the mood.”

He was past being surprised by anything. Go to London, he was told, so to London he'd go. He was beginning to tire of the whole thing. And not least of being given a case, and from the word go denied a mass of detail known to others who were in on the case as well.

He'd have to bring back something for Ira and Yana. How surprisingly practical he was all of a sudden!

Returning to his office, Viktor found Zanozin seated at his desk.

“Got a surprise,” he said smiling and patting a large brown envelope.

It contained a photograph showing a badly burned corpse in a room destroyed by fire. “Veresayev, Nikolay Petrovich, Colonel, Border Troops HQ,” Zanozin explained.

“Who took it?” Viktor asked, examining it closely.

“Find me a flat, and I'll tell you,” laughed Zanozin.

“Tell me, and I'll find you a couple.”

“It was taken by On the Spot TV. They're well in with the fire brigade – they've got a direct line. One of the On the Spot crew had his own camera.”

“How did you find out?”

“Spoke to the firemen.”

“Brilliant! Carry on like like this, keep your nose clean, and you'll have your flat!” Viktor grinned. “But I'm not sure where this photograph gets us.”

“Look at his hands.”

Viktor took the print over to the window. The body lay arched,
right arm flung back, left arm reaching forward. The tips of all fingers had been burnt away, but while the left thumb was more or less intact, the whole of the right thumb was missing!

“Have you seen the TV footage?”

“Hasn't been kept. This photo's all there is.”

“Well, thanks.”

When Zanozin had gone, Viktor looked at his watch. 3.55. Pending the arrival of his passport, he would give his mind to thumbs.

As it grew dark, and Sakhno had still not returned, Nik marvelled at his managing to make twenty marks last so long.

He looked around for the tortoise and was relieved to see it still motionless before its empty bowl. Then the phone rang.

“Why try to fool me?” asked the man.

“How do you mean?”

“You've left a hell of a lot of evidence at Masha's … You're going to have to ditch your pal. Then we'll help. We can't get both of you out of this. Slip him two of the tablets, and when you've done that, ring 48-04, and I'll tell you what next.”

The dialling tone followed, and for a while Nik stood, still foolishly holding the receiver to his ear.

The tortoise had withdrawn its head into its shell. He hoped it wasn't dead.

What evidence had they left? The man was talking gibberish! Ditch Sakhno, indeed!

He opened the window. The night air was amazingly warm. Hearing a vehicle, he leant out, hoping to see the hearse, but was disappointed. The drizzle was like a tepid shower.

The phone rang, but he let it, and went and made coffee.

After a while the phone rang again, and this time Nik answered. If the flat was being watched, they would know he was there.

“How are we?”

Nik said nothing.

“Sorry if you're put out. No need for any tablets. Just pulling your leg. You left nothing too incriminating.”

Nik swore.

“That's the way – let off steam! And now you need paper and pen … Tomorrow's route and the new target address.

“The house,” he continued, after Nik had read it all back, “has got cameras and security and is not to be approached. What you're to do is buy en route four kilos or so of frozen fish. This you chuck over the wall when you get there, then come straight back.”

“A four-hour drive just for that?”

“And one that you'll be doing more than once – so think long-distance! But here's your pal coming back. Good luck!”

Sakhno was in a cheerful mood. He put down lettuce for the tortoise, which the tortoise showed no interest in, keeping its head retracted, and offered Nik a smoke, which he refused. Told what was proposed for the next day, he showed no surprise and simply nodded.

The plane took off from Borispol for London at the early hour of 7.30 a.m. Viktor left his packing to Ira, and arranged for Zanozin to spend the night at their flat, then drive the car back to District from the airport.

Sitting in the kitchen, Viktor checked the three hundred dollars travelling expenses in one pocket, and in another Ratko's fifty dollars for a pair of red braces, any change from which, Ratko had said, he was to keep.

“You must buy some new socks – yours are mostly holes,” came Ira's voice. “And where's the bag you took to Moscow?”

“Top of the corridor cupboard.”

Minutes later Ira came in, handed him the curious automatic and asked, “Is this the bag you're taking?”

Weighing the gun in his hand, he looked around for somewhere to put it. The dusty space between kitchen cabinet and ceiling looked promising, and wrapping it in a tea-cloth, he put it there.

Georgiy rang.

“All set?”

“Almost.”

“Mind on the job?”

“Practically.”

“You'll have three hours on the plane to collect your thoughts. Good luck! Ring when you get back.”

Zanozin turned up shortly before midnight, produced a bottle of Odessa cognac from his briefcase, and sat in the kitchen, where Viktor joined him, having checked his bag and looked in on Ira and Yana.

“Ever been to London, Comrade Lieutenant?” Zanozin asked.

“Moscow, Chernovtsy, Zhitomir are the only places I've been. And for God's sake call me Viktor.”

“You could bring back some beer.”

“What sort?”

“Any good sort.”

Time flew to the point where Viktor judged it wise to switch from cognac to mineral water. At 6.00 they went down to the car. The route to the airport was happily straightforward.

At Gatwick he emerged from immigration control to see a young lady displaying a card with his name wrongly spelt, and speaking no Russian. He followed her out to a black Ford Mondeo which they drove to London and the Kensington Park Hotel. Here she saw him
to his room, presented him with a plastic folder of conference literature, and left.

Viktor sat on the bed regretting that he'd not brought a dictionary, when the bedside phone rang.

“Welcome to London!” said a pleasant female Russian voice. “I'm Vika, from the Embassy, your conference interpreter. I'll come over and explain the literature if that's all right.”

“Please do.”

He felt suddenly happier, and taking in the mini-bar and wall-mounted television with remote control, even more so.

It was after midday when they started for Trier and it took almost five hours to get there, after time spent locating a fish shop, and arguing what to buy and how much to spend. Sakhno was all for small sardines at seven DM a kilo. Nik, in default of specific instructions, preferred proper fish to what Sakhno dismissed as “gobies in tomato sauce”. In the end, they bought four kilos of outlandishly named and astonished-looking fish. As they continued on their way, they were slowed by rain.

From Trier they took the Luxembourg road, and in five or so kilometres spotted the narrow tarmac track they had been told to look out for. Parking the hearse amongst trees, they set off on foot along the track with the fish. The rain had eased, but the air was humid and heavy.

A quarter of an hour brought them to tall gates in a tall brick wall, where, hearing a car approaching behind them, they darted into the woods.

A crimson Jaguar pulled up, the gates swung slowly back, revealing the two-storey villa with red-tiled roof, satellite dish and naval-style squashed-sphere aerial that lay beyond.

The gates swung shut, and as if taking that as a signal, the rain returned.

One by one Nik threw the fish over the wall near the entrance, where, he argued, they would be more conspicuous.

“Mission completed,” Sakhno laughed, and they trudged back through the rain to the hearse. Then added, “We do, I suppose, get reimbursed for outgoings on fish.”

“It's their money we've been spending.”

“Which leaves food-and-drink expenses incurred delivering fish.”

The conference venue was the Hilton, a half-hour walk from Viktor's hotel.

The first session, “Suspect Totals in Inter-Bank Transfers”, conducted by a young lady from the Bank of England, left him cold, in spite of Vika's conscientious interpreting. During the break for watery coffee other delegates glanced at his name tag and passed on. “Finding it interesting?” Vika asked archly as they stood together apart from the rest.

“Yes, but beyond me,” he confessed.

“So let's get you in with some of the more worth knowing,” she said, Young Communist organizer to her fingertips, marching him over to two thickset men standing smoking in the window: one a Swedish Home Office official concerned with drug proceeds, the other an Economic Crime specialist from Germany. Vika spoke at length with both in English, but did not translate.

“I hope you don't mind,” she said later. “I said I was your secretary and invited them to dinner at the Plaza at 7.30 this evening. Don't worry, it's on the Embassy. Our Commercial Councillor will do the talking. We need the contacts.”

“We?”

“Your embassy. You're a patriot, aren't you?”

He didn't answer.

“No need to sit the whole meal out. When you're bored, just get up and go.”

The second session was as unfathomable as the first, but a welcome, if unexpected diversion was provided by the late arrival of Refat. Viktor looked around for him at the end of the session, but he was no longer to be seen.

“Pick you up at 7.00,” said Vika. “Think you can find your own way back to the hotel?”

Black taxis, red buses, a vast and varied mass of people. He had the feeling of acting in a foreign film. Any minute the action would start. There'd be a shoot-out, a car chase. It was absorbing, alien, until suddenly the homely M of a McDonald's caught his eye.

It would be good, he thought, munching a Big Mac, to meet up with Refat, if only over a drink of tea or coffee. He respected the man, found him genuinely interesting, without quite knowing why. He was serious, truthful, straightforward. He had a proper sense of his own dignity and integrity, where Viktor was beginning to wonder if he himself any longer did. He had the impression of being played with, turned into a puppet. Even his own embassy was using him as cover.