The Case of the General's Thumb (5 page)

Georgiy told him he should now go home and get some sleep. He would ring in the morning.

As he got into his car, Viktor saw three scared-looking aircrew emerge from the Volga and scuttle up the ramp into their plane.

Half dead with fatigue, he drove, slumped forward onto the wheel, eyes fixed on the deserted road ahead. What had been the sense of his being there? Special Forces had managed perfectly without him. His only answer was the road in the Mazda's headlights.

Ivan Lvovich turned up at 10.55, made himself a cheese sandwich, and as he ate and Nik drank coffee, talked.

“One,” he began, “whatever the situation, keep calm, don't fly off the handle. Act slow-witted. Gives you time to think …

“Two, no playing the smart-arse with Sakhno. Treat him like
your kid brother. If he gets het up, go easy. You're his rescuer, and he must trust you as such – that's essential.

“Tonight you and he travel to Sarny, Belarus. The tickets are on their way. You spend the night in the hotel outside the station, and tomorrow you take the 13.00 bus to Brest. In Brest you overnight in a hotel, get tourist vouchers for Poland, and proceed to Poznan, where, you tell him, you've a good friend who can fix things. Alex Wozniak's your friend. Telephone 555-421. Ex-Security. At some point, out of Sakhno's hearing, he'll brief you further.”

He produced an American Express card.

“Seen one of these?”

“Only in films.”

“But you've got the idea. I'll give you a thousand dollars in notes to see you through the first few days. Spend sensibly. From Poland on, you can use the card for tickets and hotels. But no lashing out. Sign your name on the back.”

“My real name?”

“So long as it's illegible. And against his perhaps becoming a menace, you'd better have these by you.” He handed Nik eight tablets embedded in plastic. “One – in tea, coffee or beer – is the dose.”

He got to his feet.

“This evening we eat here. I'll bring the food. You stay in. If you need fresh air, open a window. If you're bored, look at the papers.”

“What papers?”

“Try the letter box. And always, Nik, before relaxing, be vigilant of your surroundings. Keep your wits about you.”

The letter box yielded copies of
Kiev News, All-Ukraine Gazette and Voice of Ukraine
.

C
ORPSE ON
S
ECURITY
R
OOF
, he read, I
NVESTIGATION
S
TALEMATE
, before turning the page in search of the crossword.

As he reached for his pen, he thought suddenly of Ivan Lvovich's advice on the score of vigilance, and checked for hidden cameras. But apart from a white box no larger than a cigarette pack in a
corner of the hall ceiling, left of the sitting-room door – probably a smoke detector – he found nothing.

Throwing open the window, he sat and thought of Tanya and Volodya now daily expecting a telegram saying they were to join him. He must tell them about the hold-up. There must be a post or telegraph office. Except that he'd been told to stay in. But which was the more important: contact his wife or obey an old man who, so far, had not kept a single promise of his own?

It might not be too late to leave a letter or wording for a telegram with Valentin. Preferably a telegram. And some money.

AT LEAST MONTH DELAY
, he wrote on a scrap of paper,
DONT WORRY LOVE YOU MISS YOU NIK
.

But as he opened the door to go in search of a post office, there was Ivan Lvovich's driver standing beside his dark blue BMW and staring hard.

Why not simply get Ivan Lvovich to send it? Adding the address in Saratov, he slipped the scrap of paper into his pocket, and returned to the papers. Mad and unreal as it seemed, there really had been a corpse on the roof of State Security. Why, no one could say. Prosecutor's Office and State Security were refusing to comment since investigations were ongoing, as also the President's Office, where the dead man had been employed.

Ivan Lvovich arrived with two carrier bags.

“Quick: knives, forks, before it gets cold!” he ordered, unloading meat and fish hors d'oeuvre, salad and vegetables, and by the time Nik brought them, plates of chips and giant pork chops were ready on the table.

“And some glasses!” he added, opening a bottle of Akhasheni.

They drank, as on the first evening, to success, then enjoyed their meal in silence.

After a second glass of the excellent Georgian wine, Nik asked Ivan Lvovich if he would send a telegram for him.

“Of course! And as I've got my camera we could send her a photo.”

He took two shots of Nik, then, using the shutter-timer, one of him and Nik together, for himself.

Viktor's day began earlier than expected. Georgiy rang at 8.30, giving him twenty minutes to shower and breakfast.

No sooner had he put the kettle on and two eggs to boil, than Georgiy rang back.

“Got something to write with? One: find out from Widow B. where and in whose company her husband spent his last few days, May 20th especially. Two: has she informed their Moscow pals of his death? If so, get their phone numbers. Three: send a cadet to collect restaurant menus for the 20th. But why tell you your job! Who's investigating? You or me?”

The sudden show of irritation was as surprising as it was off-putting.

“You, I'd say.”

“You would, would you? And wouldn't you also say that you should get organized?”

Georgiy was right. He had yet to set out and analyse what he'd learnt concerning Bronitsky. Still, he'd not been at it all that long.

“Understood,” said Viktor.

“Good man. Now, some news for you. It was Bronitsky's body you foiled the illegal export of. So the widow can go ahead with arrangements. They'll release the body tomorrow, especially now there's a luxury coffin with bronze handles which his colleagues clubbed together for. And another thing – and not your problem – those who lay him out will have to put left hand over right.”

“How so?”

“Someone's sliced his right thumb off as a keepsake.”

“What the hell for?”

“Who's doing the investigating?”

“Me. But knowing who you are would help.”

“Tough, talking to an abstraction, eh?” The voice softened. “Well, here's the picture: age, forty-five; height 182; hair short, dark; bachelor; whisky-on-the-rocks man; non-smoker; jogs five kilometres daily. That do?”

“Not quite what I had in mind.”

“I know.”

“Am I allowed another question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why the airport trip? Special Forces had it all buttoned up.”

“To show them who was in charge, and now they've seen you, they know. I'll never ask you to do anything that doesn't make sense. Sense there will be, if not apparent. How are we feeling?”

“Fine.”

“So ring the widow and arrange to meet as soon as possible.”

From that point on, the day went as smoothly as a train downhill. Delighted at the release of her husband's body, Widow Bronitsky talked for half an hour, yielding more than he'd bargained for. He duly noted the address and phone number of Maksim Ivin, as well as the phone numbers of Bronitsky's two pals now in Moscow. The son had gone off to his Cambridge language school without saying goodbye. He'd had a major row with his father, but had been driven by his father's chauffeur to the airport. Ivin had visited Kiev two days before her husband's death. He'd not come to the house but stayed at a hotel. He must have met up with her husband at least once, because her husband had brought her a gift of Yves St Laurent perfume from him.

All this Viktor wrote up before lunch, copying addresses and phone numbers from crumpled scraps of paper, then called the smartest-looking of the cadets to his office, and sent him to chase up menus for May 20th.

“How do I know what restaurants there are?”

“Get the Major's Kiev A to Z, make a list and tick them off. Red caviar pancakes are what you're after. Make a good job of it, and you can assist further with the investigation.”

The cadet brightened.

“And you are?”

“Zanozin, Mikhail.”

“Report back every three hours. If I'm out, leave a note.”

Taking a sheet of paper, Viktor listed, on the left, friends and relatives seen by Bronitsky shortly before his death, and on the right, who to interview: former colleagues, those he played cards and hunted with, and the son in England.

The son would probably come back for the funeral. So, too, the Moscow friends, who had phoned and asked about arrangements.

Writing
Corpse / Zhulyany – Voronezh / thumb?
on his sheet of paper, he wondered about this obliging smuggler of Georgiy's who had surrendered the body to avoid being incriminated. Or was he thick with Georgiy and dependent on him for his AN-26 charter flights? Either way, he'd been of assistance, and suitably rewarded, no doubt. As to the thumb, well … More important was the body. A thumb with no body would have got them nowhere.

A knock, and Zanozin entered, breathless and carrying a folder.

“Menus for the 20th,” he announced.

“Any red caviar?”

“Yes, at the Kozak.”

“Good lad. How many still to go?”

“Thirty-five, plus eight hotel restaurants.”

“Pack it in for now then, and get cracking tomorrow. Results to me by 1.00.”

“Passport, dollars,” said Ivan Lvovich, handing them to Nik, who was now wearing the brand new denim suit he had been presented with.

“Make sure you've got the credit card and tablets. Everything of yours stays here.”

Everything, save a photo of Tanya and Volodya safely buttoned into his breast pocket together with two train tickets and a million in the inflated Belarusian currency.

“When you get to Belarus, buy a couple of cases and something to put in them,” Ivan Lvovich advised, as they drove to Kiev. “To keep customs happy.”

After which they travelled in silence.

Seeing the flyover ahead, Ivan Lvovich told the driver to take the embankment route after Vydubichi, and when they got to the embankment told him to stop while he and Nik stretched their legs.

They walked beside the tranquil flow of the Dnieper. The sun hung low above the hill. Cars sped by. The clatter of a tram was added to the noise of the traffic.

“Nervous?” Ivan Lvovich asked, stopping.

“No.”

“Good. Don't smoke, do you?”

“Gave up in Dushanbe.”

“Well done!”

While Ivan Lvovich lit a cigarette, Nik surveyed the panorama of island, bridges and multi-storeys.

“You've got Wozniak's number?”

“I have.”

“Think you'll remember it all?”

“I think so.”

“The fiction is that you, being yourself in the process of defecting, saw him as the very man you needed. You know of money
for the taking which one could live very nicely on in the West, and half can be his. How much, I leave to you. Don't overdo it. He's no fool. And make clear that after the share-out, you go your separate ways.”

The blue BMW dropped them in the courtyard of a five-storey block, from where they made their way past washing lines and a children's play area to where the Miller Ltd Suspended Ceilings minivan was parked.

The monitors now showed a corridor, a kitchen and a bedroom. In the kitchen Sakhno and a slim girl with fair curly shoulder-length hair were eating a meal. The girl poured wine. Sakhno drained his at a gulp. The girl merely sipped. Putting another bottle on the table, she said something, Sakhno nodded, got to his feet, went into the corridor and disappeared through a door.

“Gone for a leak or a shower,” observed Ivan Lvovich.

The girl stood listening for a moment, then slipped into the bedroom. From the wardrobe she fetched a shoebox which she put on the floor and did something to before shoving it under the disordered bed. She then undressed and put on a flimsy negligée.

Sakhno came in wearing only a towel. They kissed. The girl removed the towel, pushed him playfully onto the bed, kissed him, pulled the coverlet over him, and went out, taking the towel with her. Sakhno lay, hands behind his head, staring foolishly at the ceiling.

“The moment of truth,” said Ivan Lvovich, passing Nik his mobile. “It's keyed to the number. Bomb under his bed, tell him, and you're waiting below.”

As the phone on the bedside table rang, Sakhno looked at it in astonishment, then slowly and reluctantly reached for the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Sergey?
There's a bomb under the bed
!
Meet you outside
!”

“
Blo-o-dy hell
!”

Throwing the receiver aside, he pulled the box out, looked inside, and began to dress.

A film-like sequence followed: Sakhno dragging the girl from the kitchen back to the bedroom, binding her with belts from the wardrobe, dumping her on the bed and shoving back the box before dashing from the flat.

“Second entrance along, Nik. Get a taxi,” Ivan Lvovich snapped. “Train's in half an hour.”

“This way!” Nik yelled, as Sakhno appeared.

Together they raced to the main road, where Nik flagged down a white Zhiguli.

Only then, heading for the station, did it strike Nik that he and Sakhno were wearing identical denim suits.

“Who the hell are you?” Sakhno demanded, when at last they sat breathless in the train.

“I'm Nik. Explanations can wait.”

Sakhno gave a feeble grin.

The train moved off.

“Sheets?” inquired the portly conductress who collected their tickets.

“Please.”

“Want anything hidden?”

“How do you mean?”

“From customs,” she said scornfully.

“No thanks.”