Traffyck (15 page)

“No, not that. Our Ivan has his own agenda. He uses drugs other than our sedatives and sleeping pills. He might use steroids on himself. But worse, there is a so-called date rape drug available in Kiev, and I believe he is using this on girls.”

Pyotr thought for a moment before answering. “I agree. Although the change in Ivan may be more gradual than you suggest, it also concerns me. Perhaps he harks back to the old ways of doing things. What do you suggest we do about our misguided Ivan?”

“I simply wished to express my concern. I did not want to kill the doctor at the female clinic in Podil. Ivan did it on his own. I realize some are sacrificed, but Ivan draws attention with his sadism. His so-called weight training is performed in anger.”

“I acknowledge your concern, Vasily. And I thank you for it. Ivan’s aggressiveness makes it more difficult to maintain control. The two of us cannot be everywhere; therefore, we will need to enlist others we can trust.”

Sensing an opening to be blunt, Vasily continued. “There is also the fact we cannot erase what happened in the Carpathians from the minds of our newest residents. When they speak of the slaughter—”

Pyotr interrupted. “We agreed to call it a rescue.”

“Very well,” said Vasily. “When they speak of the rescue to others, they go into great detail. Ivan then tells everyone the attack was only the beginning.”

Pyotr took a sip of tea and waited for Vasily to do the same before speaking. “In the same way our tea has cooled, Ivan’s schemes—if he actually has schemes—will pass. In my opinion, we must be more concerned about threats to the peninsula from the outside world than from within. Have you had the fence separating the mainland checked recently?”

“It is checked daily,” said Vasily. “The SBU post has three men, and we walk the fence from one end to the other.”

Pyotr ran a hand through his white hair. “Excellent. And something else I wish to commend you for is the handling of the fire in Kiev. I had foreseen difficulty from Investigator Nagy’s cohort, Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved. It was good planning on your part to surgically remove him along with Viktor Patolichev. Shved’s unearthing of old business was annoying.”

“When young people disappear off the street, the business is never finished.”

“Very observant, Vasily. Old business for us is never old when it comes to parents who should have performed their parental duty and kept their imps off the streets. Speaking of old business, there is something I want you, and only you, to know. I’ve kept it to myself until now because I thought it might affect our operation.”

“What is it?”

“Viktor Patolichev. He used to be one of us.”

Vasily sat forward, surprised. “The man running the video store came from here?”

“Yes, one of the originals from Kharkiv. You were too young to recall when he ran away. I thought, at the time, he’d gotten lost. But Lyashko’s men on the left bank eventually found a wooden boat washed up on one of the islands. Viktor apparently found it in the marsh and repaired it for the crossing. It is still a mystery. I condoned brainwashing methods back then for obvious reasons. Yet he ends up in Kiev running a pornographic video store.”

“This brainwashing was because of the other business?” asked Vasily.

“You can say it, Vasily. I was deeply involved in trafficking and felt it necessary to use more stringent methods.”

“Stronger drugs?” asked Vasily.

“Yes,” said Pyotr, staring at Vasily. “I make this admission to you. Ivan is the last of the old breed, and most likely relies on something.”

“Back to your answer to our problem,” said Vasily. “You said we may need to enlist the help of others to keep Ivan in check. I could bring some or our people back from the field, but if this does not work—”

Pyotr shrugged his shoulders. “If it does not work, we send Ivan on a mission from which he does not return. Times have changed. Those sent to do good works must be fine-tuned. When Ivan is given a job, he does it. Unfortunately, if a field decision is needed—”

“What do you mean?” asked Vasily.

“I’m referring to your order to Ivan not to burn the Carpathian lodge. Even after the discovery of Ivan Babii and the others, news of the investigation was kept to a minimum.”

“I assume Lyashko and his SBU had something to do with that?”

“True.” Pyotr chuckled. “What a world of coincidence we inhabit, Vasily. Ivan Babii is removed from the scene, and here on the peninsula, another Ivan the Terrible emerges.”

Vasily stared at the fire, paused before he spoke. “I need to say something else.”

“Proceed.”

“We sent one of the boys with Lyashko to Kiev. I wondered why he never returned.”

Pyotr leaned forward to get Vasily’s attention and stared at him. “Kiev is a dangerous city. He abandoned Lyashko and met a violent end. I did not want to upset you or anyone else.”

“Will Lyashko and Father Rogoza be coming for another visit soon?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if I might sit in on the meetings now that I know about their involvement.”

Pyotr smiled. “Yes, Vasily, I agree. You are next in line should anything happen to me. As for Lyashko and Rogoza holding the finances, that poses a future problem. For now, because of favors, and because of their positions, we are safe. But, as they say, tomorrow is another day.”

Pyotr looked at his watch. “And, since a shipment of supplies arrives before dawn, I should let you get a few hours’ sleep.”

As he escorted Vasily to the door, Pyotr placed his hand on Vasily’s shoulder. “I’m getting older, Vasily. Everything here is a test, and I think you and I have succeeded. As we discussed last time, I have even thrown off the evangelical yoke of religion.”

“I remember,” said Vasily. “You theorized evolution of thinking creatures who contemplate creators in their image is Earth’s safety fuse. Organized religion leads to untested certainty. If natural disaster fails, Earth uses religion, economics, and war to cleanse itself.”

Pyotr held both Vasily’s shoulders and stared at him. “I’ve always wanted a son, Vasily. In many ways, I feel you are my son.”

Vasily returned Pyotr’s stare, then said, “Good night,” and was gone.

In darkness, everything changed. The only light came from a small flicker of flame remaining on a fragment of log down low in the fireplace. “Good night,” Vasily had said. No father-son embrace, no shaking of hands, nothing except “Good night.”

Pyotr turned from the closed door, climbed the stairs to his sleeping loft, went to the window, opened it, and breathed in the cool night air. After several deep breaths, he whispered, “I always wanted a son. What purpose will I have served without a son?”

As he continued standing at the window, he looked up to the sky where stars flickered between the leaves of the tree canopy. Perhaps there were simply too many people in the world, the way there were too many stars, the people becoming commodities as the black hole of death waits in the wings to swallow up all matter, even stars.

Pyotr closed the window and went to bed.

With whom had he spoken at the window? No one but himself! And when he was gone, who would speak for him? Perhaps a child wandering the streets in need of a stronger soul would snatch his before it was sucked into the black hole. A child who would learn to avoid vultures like Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza—deputy chairman of the Synodal Department for Relations with Armed Forces and Law Enforcement Agencies—or, even worse, Anatoly Lyashko—SBU head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime.

Pyotr lay in bed for a long time before finally falling asleep. In the nightmare, his drunken father came to his small bed, turned him over, and Pyotr bit into the threadbare mattress, keeping himself silent and stupid, like his mother, who had already withstood her nightly violation. Later in the nightmare, Lyashko and Rogoza also made appearances, both waiting on the far side of the room, two depraved old men, one with a hand to his belt, the other lifting his cassock.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

When Nikolai Kozlov and his investigators left Mariya’s apartment, Janos Nagy walked out with them to see about the guard on the apartment building. Two uniformed militiamen sat in an unmarked turd-green Zhiguli close enough to the entrance to examine arrivals before they got to the locked vestibule door. After Kozlov instructed the militiamen, Janos reminded them to check everyone entering the apartment building, even those with keys. Obviously, from the look on Kozlov’s face, he did not appreciate Private Investigator Nagy’s making suggestions, but one of the uniformed militiamen knew Janos, and this helped ease the tension.

As Janos walked back to the entrance with Mariya’s key in hand, Kozlov called to him from the parking lot. “Janos!” Kozlov was on the other side of his car, his receding scalp like a blue lightbulb in the overhead parking lot light. “I know you will forward anything she adds to her story. You were once one of us and I expect full cooperation.”

“All the more reason for you to trust me, Nikolai. If you uncover anything, I will also appreciate the information.”

After Kozlov and his partner drove away, Janos told the uniformed militiamen he was going to order food for him and Mariya Nemeth. Both militiamen agreed an order from the local MacSmack Pizzeria sounded like an excellent idea for the long overnight watch.

On his way back to the apartment, Janos considered Nikolai Kozlov’s so-called investigation. Throughout the questioning, Kozlov had hinted kidnappings were often faked to put pressure on insurance investigators. Janos knew Mariya was not faking. He had been there earlier in the evening when she’d returned. He had felt the grip of her arms and the trembling of her body and the heat of her tears on his neck and, mostly, he had felt her reluctance to let go.

When the accusation of faking the kidnapping dissolved, Kozlov suggested the kidnappers might have been youthful pranksters. But Janos knew this was not true. Mariya had been a child of the street herself and would not have been frightened by a simple prank.

Mariya was still in the shower when Janos returned to the apartment. He shouted from the living room that he was back, and she answered, “Okay.”

Under the circumstances, it seemed foolish to ask about pizza ingredients, so he simply looked up the nearest MacSmack in the directory next to the phone and called in an order for two mushroom and ham pizzas, one for the militiamen and one for him and Mariya. After ordering the pizzas, he sat on the sofa and looked at his watch. It was 10:30 already. Two hours earlier he had waited while the militia was on its way and while Mariya was in the bathroom washing up. He knew she meant a douche because she had pointed to herself when she said it. At first he thought she’d been raped and there might be semen samples. But when he suggested a doctor, Mariya insisted she had not been raped.

Janos remembered the look on her face. She had stepped back from him, pointed to herself, and said, “Perhaps it is symbolic, but I need to wash.” The look on her face was that of an innocent child who was hurt but didn’t know why. It reminded him of an episode years earlier in western Ukraine when his sister Sonia had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken her arm. The look on Sonia’s face as she pointed to her dangling arm in the moment before she began screaming was the same look Mariya had on her face.

The sound of the shower stopped, making the pipes in the apartment walls shutter. A minute later, Janos heard a hair dryer. When the pizzas arrived he went down to the vestibule, paid the delivery boy, and had one of the pizzas taken out to the militiamen on guard. After he returned to the apartment, Mariya spoke to him through the closed bathroom door.

“I smell food.”

“I ordered from MacSmack. Mushroom and ham.”

“There are plates and napkins in the cabinet next to the refrigerator. And, Janos?”

“Yes?”

“Please do not call me Mrs. Patolichev.”

He remembered Kozlov using Mariya’s married name even after she had corrected him.

The bathroom door opened, and Mariya came out wearing a long blue robe. Her damp hair curled at her neck. She wore no makeup, and her face was no longer red from the exertion of her ride home and from the embarrassment of having to explain what had happened.

Mariya folded her arms as if chilled and looked toward the apartment door as if someone had arrived. Janos knew what death was about, especially the effect of a recent death of a family member. He knew Viktor Patolichev was there in memory—a man hurrying in from the busy world, perhaps tossing a jacket onto the sofa, appearing for a split second the way dead people always do until time dulls the image.

Mariya turned from the apartment door and looked to Janos. Her eyes were blue-green. In the lounge at Borispol, it had been too dark; and earlier this evening, he had found it difficult to look into her eyes while she told what the two men had done to her. When she sat with him on the sofa, a fresh after-shower scent came with her. When she smiled at him, he recalled what Svetlana Kovaleva had said. Yes, she did look like Kim Novak from Alfred Hitchcock films.