The Case of the General's Thumb (8 page)

They were of three men lying face upwards on a blood-soaked carpet, one of them the man seen by Viktor with Widow Bronitsky at the cemetery.

“Is that him?” Viktor asked.

“Surprised you didn't recognize him.”

“A good moment to drink to his memory,” said Yura, pouring vodka for himself and wine for Viktor. “Death catches up eventually, however hard you run.”

“What questions did you have for him?” Refat asked.

“How did you know it was him I'd come to see?”

“He rang from Kiev saying he'd been photographed at the cemetery and was afraid they were out to kill him. I assume it is Bronitsky's death that you're investigating?”

“Yes,” said Viktor, “but I didn't see any photographs being taken, and I was there at the cemetery.”

“He'd intended to stay on a few days after the funeral. Instead he flew straight back home, where his wife found him, when she returned from visiting a friend.”

“Who was it answered when I phoned?”

“One of us.”

Refat sipped his apple juice.

“Look,” he went on, “you, understandably, are cagey. But we're both of us Russians. This splitting into different countries is politics. We, you and I, are working on the same case. We, too, want to know what happened to Bronitsky. It wasn't, as you may think, wicked Moscow that did him in after the Staff HQ trouble. Not one of us here had the slightest interest in seeing him dead. I can support that with facts, only you'd have to keep them to yourself. Though the Russo-Ukrainian treaty concerning inter-Security-Service co-operation provides sufficient justification for our present meeting.

“You can take these photos with you for your report, and you can put down the extra day to Major Krylov – that's Yura here – of the
Moscow Criminal Investigation Department. An exchange of questions and answers is all I'm after.”

“Fine,” said Viktor, overcome with curiosity.

“So why the sudden interest in Ivin?”

“Three days ago I discovered he'd been staying at the Moskva on the key dates. I have reason to believe that he and Bronitsky ate at the buffet there the evening Bronitsky died.”

“Spot on,” said Refat. “Good work. But why complicate things for yourself?”

“How do you mean?”

“By having an office at District.”

“Why not? It's mine.”

Refat forced a smile.

“To go back to Bronitsky. Was it you who prevented the body's being flown to Voronezh?”

Refat seemed both to know too much and yet to put wrong questions. Viktor poured himself wine and drank.

“You have, you say, proof of Moscow's non-involvement.”

“We'll leave it,” said Refat, as Yura entered bearing a pan, from which, with a flourish, he served them each with three cylindrical pancakes.

“Mustn't let them get cold.”

Cutting into his pancake, Viktor found that it was filled with red caviar.

“Yes,” said Refat, “it was us, Ivin, Bronitsky and me, eating together in the fourth-floor buffet on May 20th.

“For your ears only, Bronitsky in his Staff HQ days was a good friend to us, and as Presidential Adviser even more so. He'd have prevented that second delivery of Ukrainian tanks to Pakistan, but for the fact that the ship had sailed …

“The flat above Ivin's was to be Bronitsky's new home in a couple of weeks, and we were discussing his future. He left about midnight – I having phoned for a taxi – intending to look in on a colleague in Bastion Street.

“We traced this colleague, but too late. Accidental death. Geyser gas leak exploded by lighted match was the official verdict. In fact, he was killed by a home-made bomb.

“I believe he was the organizer of all this, if not the actual killer. The balloon part would have called for extra help, and may not have been his handiwork at all. Who knows? Anyway, he's dead and buried. One more funeral, and we can close the file.”

“Whose?”

“The bomber's … It's the classic variant: cut the first two links and there's no causal chain.”

“And the balloon?”

“If we ever got who did that they'd probably be small-time, acting, they'd say, on the instructions of the chap who got blown up. But let's eat.”

Viktor helped himself to more pancakes. Clearly Refat took him for Security – the remark about his having an office with the militia was proof of that – and the extent to which he was confiding in him was flattering. The explosion in Bastion Street, which was on Viktor's patch, was news indeed.

“Keen shot?” Refat asked.

“Yes.”

“Come and see our range.”

They followed a lighted path to a tunnel-like underground range a short distance from the house.

Refat produced long-barrelled small-bore pistols, and they fired at targets lit for two seconds only. Refat scored well. Viktor, who had not stuck to apple juice, less well.

“Back to the table, or off to bed?” Refat demanded.

“Back to the table.”

“Now for your questions,” said Refat, as Viktor was helping himself to tomato salad.

“Why were you bringing the body to Russia?”

“We weren't. It wasn't us. The logic of it escapes me completely.
Unless the idea was to implicate Moscow. What sort of plane was it?”

“An AN-26 of Belarusian Airlines.”

“And the cargo?”

“I don't know. Crates, cartons.”

“And weren't interested?”

“It was the body I was interested in. You can find out from Voronezh what the cargo was.”

Refat grinned.

“According to Voronezh customs, combine harvester spares for Sunrise Agricultural Suppliers, who paid the duty and collected. Only there's no such firm. Did what you saw look like harvester spares?”

“No.”

“If you get anything further on that flight, do please let us in on it. You'll find us grateful. We're as keen as you are to get to the bottom of this business.”

When Viktor woke it was midday, and brilliantly sunny.

Downstairs he found Refat sitting reading the paper. They drank coffee together, then went up to Viktor's room.

“You'd better have this,” Refat said, producing Viktor's automatic and holster from the bedside cupboard. “We took charge of it at the hotel before the chambermaids went through your bag.” Bending to the drawer, Refat brought out a second Tula Tokarev. “And accept this one as a souvenir and mark of friendship.”

Viktor looked puzzled.

“Why do I need two?”

“It's what's called a ‘backfirer'.”

Extracting the magazine, he showed that the rounds were inserted nose to rear.

“What's the point?”

“It was an old favourite with Stalin. Your would-be killer becomes a suicide case. We did a weapon-switch on some thugs
recently, and are now four the fewer. It's vital, of course, not to get them mixed. See, the modification's stamped with three 9s instead of one.

“Now take it easy, put your feet up, see if you can think of any more questions, and when it's time to eat, we'll shout. Oh, and if you'd like to pop down for the papers. I've finished with them.”

R
USSIA AND
U
KRAINE –
N
EITHER
P
EACE
N
OR
W
AR
? ran the eye-catching Izvestiya headline. It was a question, it appeared, of determining the frontier, or, more exactly, of the two sides being able to agree where it ran.

Woken by shouting in the street below, Nik rushed to the open window in time to catch “Pidory nemyetskiye!” – “Rotten German sods!” – delivered in a familiar voice, and saw Sakhno standing at the hotel entrance haranguing two men – one of them his obliging waiter of the evening before, now clearly the manager – and, dominating the entrance, a long, black limousine.

By the time Nik got to the front entrance, Sakhno and the vehicle had disappeared.

As Nik stood looking this way and that, hoping to God Sakhno hadn't been arrested, he suddenly came around the corner of the hotel, puffy-faced, red-eyed, carrying a well-filled plastic bag in one hand, and a Walkman in the other.

“What's up?” he asked, seeing Nik was barefooted.

“Your shouting. You woke me!”

“Let's get to the room. I've had an arseful of these bloody Germans! Up on their hind legs, not a word of Russian between them! You'd think they'd won the war!”

“Wouldn't they let you in?”

“They will now,” Sakhno said, throwing back the thick glass door.

The elderly manager watched with a frown.

“Why all the fuss?” Nik asked, when they reached their room.

“They were the fuss! Didn't like the car.”

“What car?”

“The limo I bought yesterday. They had some beef about its blocking the entrance. Instead of being grateful for having it parked there. It's a damned sight smarter than this hole.”

“Is this the car that was there when you were effing and blinding?”

“Yes, not one of their titchy VWs, and now at the back blocking the car park exit. So they can laugh that one off!”

He put the Walkman on the window-ledge and the carrier bag on the floor beside his bed.

“Where did you get the money?”

“The envelope. Four thousand DM was what they wanted for the car – I got it for two thousand eight hundred.”

“Where did you spend the night?”

“In the car. Lost my way. This morning I found the station and came on from there.”

Whatever next? Nik wondered. A plane hijack? With Sakhno out of funds anything was possible.

“Can you lend me two hundred?”

“Reading my thoughts?”

“Should have made it five hundred, perhaps.”

Nik handed over four fifties from his wallet, cheered by the thought that Sakhno seemed equal to anything.

“I'll show you the town. It's not a bad place. We'll follow our noses, you having first treated me to breakfast.”

“Treat yourself. Breakfast's downstairs and included in the room price.”

Alone in the dining room, they stretched self-service to include preparing their sandwiches for the day.

“Some country this,” Sakhno conceded, tucking in. “Pity they don't learn Russian at school.”

The car, all five metres of it, looked fine from a distance, but on closer inspection showed signs of extensive body work and efficient re-spraying. A surprising feature was that it had seats only for the driver and a passenger, and a rear door opening onto a vast load space level with the top of the two seats.

“Well?”

“Fine, except for passenger space. You could put in extra seating.”

“Sort of thing the Germans are good at. Just a question of money. Hop in.”

“Stop at the entrance. I'll tell the old boy we'll be back by 2.00, in case anyone wants us.”

Nik stepped from the car with a curious sense of pride. He was a different person, with a different past, a limousine and personal chauffeur. In the foyer he was brought speedily back to earth.

“You park that hearse outside my hotel again, and you and your chum are out on your ear!” the elderly manager announced grimly.

On his way home from the station, Viktor left a note for Ratko saying he would be in at lunchtime.

It was misty, and after the heat of Moscow, mild with a light breeze.

His night in a single sleeper had left him fresh and ready for work, border guards and customs having let him sleep, seeing the militia warrant card left ready with his passport. His bag with the two automatics had been under his bunk.

Ira, all smiles and kisses, prompted the suspicion that something was up.

In the living room Yana was asleep in her cot. On the table, expensive flowers, a bottle of Crimean muscat, and a telegram.

Some relative must have turned up, or be on their way, and would have to be met. Resigned, he reached for the telegram, and to his amazement read:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DARLING
=
DELAYED EXTRA DAY
=
HOME TOMORROW MORNING
=
LOVE VIKTOR
.

Ira flung her arms around him.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Yesterday would have been better, but all's ready for tonight. Have a good trip?”

He nodded.

“You've got a letter. In the kitchen.”

No stamp, no address, only his name.

“How did it come?”

“Left in our post box.”

The envelope contained a small slip of paper, and under yesterday's date and a telephone number, “No offence, I trust. All the best, Refat.”

Pocketing the slip of paper, he felt as if he'd been scanned by some vast X-ray machine. It left him with a nasty metallic taste in his mouth and a vague, almost childish sense of resentment.

“Shall I make some coffee?” Ira asked.

“Please. I must get back to work.”

“But you'll be home by 7.00?”

He nodded.

At District, he found Zanozin waiting patiently.

“Major Ratko said you'd be back by lunch,” he said, getting up.

“How's it going?”

“On duty on the night of the 20th-21st was a Sergeant Voronko, who's now out of town, earthing up potatoes for his mother, but will be back on Independence Square tomorrow night. Anything else I can do?”

“Yes, ring round all Bastion Street officers, find out who had a flat fire on his patch in the second half of May. Get the details.”

When Zanozin had gone, Viktor stuck his tiny immersion heater in a glass of water, and gazed out at the trees.

Away from Refat's green-eyed gaze and calm assurance, he felt the need to check the accuracy of what he'd been told, and his instructions to Zanozin were a start in that direction. After which he had another simple task for him to get to work on and report back on by 6.00.