Stalin’s Ghost

W
inter was what Muscovites lived for. Winter knee-deep in snow that softened the city, flowed from golden dome to golden dome, resculpted statues and transformed park paths into skating trails. Snow that sometimes fell as a lacy haze, sometimes thick as down. Snow that made sedans of the rich and powerful crawl behind snowplows. Snow that folded and unfolded, teasing the eye with glimpses of an illuminated globe above the Central Telegraph Office, Apollo’s chariot leaving the Bolshoi, a sturgeon sketched in neon at a food emporium. Women shopped amid the gusts, gliding in long fur coats. Children dragged sleds and snowboards, while Lenin lay in his mausoleum, deaf to correction, wrapped in snow.

And, in Arkady’s experience, when the snow melted, bodies would be discovered. In Moscow that was spring.

I
t was two in the morning, an hour that was both early and late. Two a.m. was a world to itself.

Zoya Filotova wore her black hair severely trimmed as if to defiantly display the bruise below her eye. She was about forty, Arkady thought, stylishly sinewy in a red leather pantsuit and a golden cross that was purely ornamental. She sat on one side of the booth, Arkady and Victor on the other, and although Zoya had ordered a brandy she had yet to touch it. She had long red fingernails and as she turned a cigarette pack over and over Arkady was put in mind of a crab inspecting dinner. The café was a chrome affair above a car wash on the beltway. No car washes tonight, not with snow falling, and the few cars that made it to the café were SUVs with four-wheel drive. The exceptions were Arkady’s Zhiguli and Victor’s Lada crouching in a corner of the lot.

Victor sipped a Chivas, just maintaining. Drinks were expensive and Victor had the patience of a camel. Arkady had a modest glass of water; he was a pale man with dark hair and the stillness of a professional observer. Thirty-six hours without sleep had made him more still than usual.

Zoya said, “My heart hurts more than my face.”

“A broken heart?” Victor suggested as if it were his specialty.

“My face is ruined.”

“No, you’re still a beautiful woman. Show my friend what else your husband did.”

The drivers and bodyguards who occupied stools along the bar were contemplative, cradling their drinks, sucking their cigarettes, keeping their balance. A couple of bosses compared Florida tans and snapshots of Sleeping Beauty. Zoya brushed the crucifix out of the way so she could unzip the top of her pantsuit and show Arkady a bruise that ran like a grape stain on the smooth plane of her breast.

“Your husband did this?” Arkady asked.

She zipped up and nodded.

“You’ll be safe soon,” Victor reassured her. “Animals like that should not be walking the street.”

“Before we married he was wonderful. I have to say even now that Alexander was a wonderful lover.”

“That’s natural,” Victor said. “You try to remember the good times. How long have you been married?”

“Three months.”

Would the snow ever end? Arkady wondered. A Pathfinder rolled up to a gas pump. The mafia was getting conservative; now that they had seized and established their separate territories they were defenders of the status quo. Their children would be bankers and
their
children would be poets, something like that. Count on it, in fifty years, a golden age of poetry.

Arkady rejoined the conversation. “Are you sure you want to do this? People change their minds.”

“Not me.”

“Maybe your husband will change his ways.”

“Not him.” She smiled with an extra twist. “He’s a brute. Now I don’t dare go to my own apartment, it’s too dangerous.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” Victor said and solemnized the moment with a sip. Cars droned by, each at a different pitch.

Arkady said, “We’ll need phone numbers, addresses, keys. His routine, habits, where he hangs out. I understand you and your husband have a business near the Arbat.”

“On the Arbat. Actually, it’s my business.”

“What sort?”

“Matchmaking. International matchmaking.”

“What is the company’s name?”

“Cupid.”

“Really?” That was interesting, Arkady thought. A quarrel in Cupid’s bower? “How long have you had this business?”

“Ten years.” Her tongue rested for a moment on her teeth as if she were going to say more and changed her mind.

“You and your husband both work there?”

“All he does is stand around and smoke cigarettes and drink with his mates. I do the work, he takes the money and when I try to stop him, he hits me. I warned him, this was the last time.”

Victor said, “So now you want him…”

“Dead and buried.”

“Dead and buried?” Victor grinned. He liked a woman with zeal.

“And never found.”

Arkady said, “What I need to know is how you knew to go to the police to have your husband killed.”

“Isn’t that how it’s done?”

Arkady ceded her the point. “But who told you? Who gave you the phone number? It makes us nervous when an innocent citizen, such as yourself, knows how to reach us. Did you get our number from a friend or did a skywriter spell out Killers for Hire?”

Zoya shrugged. “A man left a message on my phone and said if I had a problem to call this number. I called and your friend answered.”

“Did you recognize the voice on the message?”

“No. I think it was a kind soul who took pity on me.”

“How did that kind soul get
your
phone number?” Victor asked.

“We advertise. We give our number.”

“Did you save the message?”

“No, why would I want anything like that on my machine? Anyway, what does it matter? I can give you each two hundred dollars.”

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” Arkady asked. “This phone thing bothers me. This could be a case of entrapment.”

Zoya had a throaty, smoker’s laugh. “How do I know you won’t simply keep the money? Or worse, tell my husband?”

Victor said, “Any enterprise demands a certain amount of trust on both sides. To begin with, the price is five thousand dollars, half before and half after.”

“I can get someone on the street to do it for fifty.”

“You get what you pay for,” Victor said. “With us, your husband’s total disappearance is guaranteed and we’ll handle the investigation ourselves.”

“It’s up to you,” Arkady emphasized. “Your decision.”

“How will you do it?”

Victor said, “The less you know about that the better.”

Arkady felt he had a front row seat to the snow, to the way it tumbled in foamy waves over parked cars. If Zoya Filotova could afford an SUV, she could pay five thousand dollars to eliminate her husband.

“He’s very strong,” she said.

“No, he’ll just be heavy,” Victor assured her.

Zoya counted out a stack of much-handled American bills, to which she added a photograph of a man in a bathrobe at the beach. Alexander Filotov was alarmingly large, with long, wet hair and he was showing the camera a beer can he had apparently crushed with one hand.

“How will I know he’s dead?” Zoya asked.

Victor said, “We’ll give you proof. We take a picture.”

“I’ve read about this. Sometimes so-called killers use makeup and catsup and pretend the ‘victim’ is dead. I want something more solid.”

There was a pause.

“More solid?” asked Victor.

“Something personal,” Zoya said.

Arkady and Victor looked at each other. This was not in the script.

“A wristwatch?” Arkady suggested.

“More personal.”

“As in…?” He didn’t like where this was going.

Zoya finally picked up her brandy and sipped. “Don’t kidnappers sometimes send a finger or an ear?”

There was another silence in the booth until Arkady said, “That’s for kidnapping.”

“That wouldn’t work anyway,” she agreed. “I might not recognize his ear or his finger. They all look pretty much alike. No, something more particular.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She swirled her glass. “He has a pretty large nose.”

Victor said, “I am not cutting off anybody’s nose.”

“If he’s already dead? It would be like carving a chicken.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Then I have another idea.”

Victor put up his hand. “No.”

“Wait.” Zoya unfolded a piece of paper with a photograph of a drawing of a tiger fighting off a pack of wolves. The photo was murky, taken in poor light, and the drawing itself had an indistinct quality. “I thought of this.”

“He has a picture?”

“He has a tattoo,” Arkady said.

“That’s right.” Zoya Filotova was pleased. “I photographed the tattoo a few nights ago while he was in a drunken stupor. It’s his own design.”

A sheet covered one corner of the tattoo but what Arkady could see was impressive enough. The tiger stood majestically on its hind legs, one paw swiping the air as the wolves snarled and cringed. A pine forest and mountain stream framed the battle. On the white arm of a birch were the letters
T, V, E, R.

Victor asked, “What does that mean?”

“He’s from Tver,” Zoya said.

“There are no tigers in Tver,” Victor said. “No mountains either. It’s a flat, hopeless dump on the Volga.”

Arkady thought that was a little harsh, but people who made it to Moscow from places like Tver usually shed their hometown identity as fast as they could. They didn’t have it inked on them forever.

“Okay,” Victor said. “Now we can definitively ID him. How do you propose we bring the proof to you? Do you expect us to lug a body around?”

Zoya finished her brandy and said, “I need only the tattoo.”

Arkady hated Victor’s Lada. The windows did not completely close and the rear bumper was roped on. Snow blew in through floorboard holes and swayed the pine scent freshener that hung from the rearview mirror.

“Cold,” Victor said.

“You could have let the car warm up.” Arkady unbuttoned his shirt.

“It will, eventually. No, I’m talking about her. I felt my testicles turn to icicles and drop, one by one.”

“She wants proof, the same as us.” Arkady peeled adhesive tape from his stomach to free a microphone and miniature recorder. He pushed Rewind and Play, listened to a sample, turned off the recorder, ejected the cassette, and placed it in an envelope, on which he wrote, “Subject Z. K. Filotova, Senior Investigator A. K. Renko, Detective V. D. Orlov,” date and place.

Victor asked, “What do we have?”

“Not much. You answered the phone on another officer’s desk and a woman asked about doing in her husband. She assumed you were Detective Urman. You played along and set up a meeting. You could arrest her now for conspiracy but you’d have nothing on the detective and no idea who gave her his phone number. She’s holding out. You could squeeze her harder if she pays for what she thinks is a finished assassination, then you’d have her for attempted murder and she might be willing to talk. Tell me about Detective Urman. It was his phone you answered?”

“Yes. Marat Urman. Thirty-five years old, single. He was in Chechnya with his buddy Isakov. Nikolai Isakov, the war hero.”

“
Detective
Isakov?” Arkady said.

Victor waited a beat. “I thought you’d like that. The file’s in back.”

Arkady covered his confusion by fishing a ribbon-bound folder out of the dirty clothes and empty bottles on the back seat.

“Is this a car or a laundry chute?”

“You should read the newspaper articles. Urman and Isakov were with the Black Berets, and they killed a lot of Chechens. We fucked up in the first Chechen war. The second time we sent in people with, as they say, the proper skills. Read the articles.”

“Would Isakov know what Urman was doing?”

“I don’t know.” Victor screwed up his face with thought. “The Black Berets make their own rules.” He kept his eyes on Arkady while he lit a cigarette. “Have you ever met Isakov?”

“Not face to face.”

“Just wondering.” Victor snuffed the match between two fingers.

“Why did you pick up Urman’s phone?”

“I was waiting for a snitch to call. He’d called Urman’s number by mistake before; it’s one digit off. These guys on the street, in the wintertime they drink antifreeze. You’ve got to catch them while they’re able to talk. Anyway, it might be a good mistake, don’t you think?”

Arkady watched a group leave the café and head for an SUV. They were heavyset, silent men until one of them built up speed and slid on the ice that covered the parking lot. He spread his arms and moved as if his shoes were skates. A second man chased him and then all the rest joined in, clowning on one leg, executing spins. The lot rang with their laughs, for their own impromptu performance, until one went down. Silent again, the others shuffled around, helped him to the car and drove off.

Victor said, “I’m no prude.”

“I never took you for one.”

“We’re underpaid and no one knows better than me what a person has to do to live. There’s a break-in and the detective steals what the robber missed. A traffic cop milks drivers for bribes. Murder, though, that’s over the line.” Victor paused to reflect. “Shostakovich was like us.”

“In what conceivable way?”

“Shostakovich, when he was young and hard up for money, played the piano for silent movies. That’s you and me. Two great mentalities wasted on shit. I’ve wasted my life. No wife, no kids, no money. Nothing but a liver you could wring the vodka from. It’s depressing. I envy you. You have something to fight for, a family.”

Arkady took a deep breath. “Of sorts.”

“Do you think we should warn the husband, the guy with the tattoo?”

“Not yet. Unless he’s a good actor, he’d tip her off.” Arkady got out of the car and immediately began stamping his feet to stay warm. Through the open door he asked, “Have you let anyone else in on this? The station commander? Internal Affairs?”

“And paint a target on my head? Just you.”

“So now we’re both targets.”

Victor shrugged. “Misery likes company.”

Arkady’s headlights concentrated on a hypnotic reel of tire tracks in the snow. He was so exhausted he was merely coasting. He didn’t mind; he could have circled Moscow forever, like a cosmonaut.

He thought of the conversations men in space had with their loved ones at home and called the apartment on his cell phone.

“Zhenya? Zhenya, are you there? If you are, pick up.”

Which was useless. Zhenya was twelve years old but had the skills of a veteran runaway and could be gone for days. There were no messages either, except something angry and garbled from the prosecutor.

Instead, Arkady called Eva at the clinic.

“Yes?”

“Zhenya is still not back. At least he didn’t answer the phone or leave a message.”

“Some people hate the phone,” she said. She sounded equally exhausted, four hours left on a sixteen-hour shift. “Working in an emergency clinic has made me a firm believer that no news is good news.”