Kirov told him that Viktor Gusev had died.
‘The black marketeer? Foul play?’
‘Uncle Bog and his team were at the bedside. There’s no reason to suspect anything.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ Grishin conceded readily. Then with the same ambiguity that drove wedges into everything he said, he added, ‘Even so, let’s carry on for a while. It can’t hurt us, can it?’ He smiled, round-cheeked and paternal. There was, he implied, nothing more to be said. For a moment Kirov was going to mention the diamonds, but Grishin’s equivocation made him hold back and instead he asked, ‘Why are we pursuing this matter? There are other things to be done.’
‘You want to be like Radek?’ Grishin replied. ‘You really want me to hand over the remains of the meat racket?’
The answer was astute enough. There was something troubling him about Radek, even if it wasn’t that. ‘I want something more — definite,’ he said and he remembered something that Radek had remarked. He added, ‘I don’t believe in the Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘There’s no black market in antibiotics?’
‘There is — just like there’s a black market in hard currency. But there’s no conspiracy. People steal antibiotics and they sell them. But that’s all there is. There’s no organisation. The conspiracy is just an invention so that we can handle the problem.’ This time Kirov felt his own impatience. Grishin was resisting him.
The General weighed up Kirov’s words. ‘Where does Viktor Gusev fit into your scheme of things?’ he asked.
‘A small-time racketeer. You could drag the Arbat and pull in a dozen Viktor Gusevs every day.’
Surprisingly Grishin agreed. ‘I’ve often thought that conspiracies are merely a certain way of looking at things. Then again,’ he said cheerfully, ‘we’re paid for hunting out conspiracies — so perhaps we’d better adopt this one as a working hypothesis? What do you say? Don’t look disappointed, Pyotr Andreevitch.’
‘Do I have authority to take the investigation out of the hands of MVD and the Public Prosecutor’s Office?’
‘Why don’t you come for dinner this weekend at my dacha?’ Grishin answered. ‘Bring Larissa Arkadyevna.’
Bogdanov had woken up and was sitting behind his desk with a pad in front of him on which he was noting the names of horses. He placed bets for anyone in the department who was interested. ‘Radek says he’s screwing Larissa Arkadyevna. He says he saw you at some party last night.’
‘I was with Neville Lucas. He set me up to meet Lara. Old age is making him sentimental.’
‘Neville?’ said Bogdanov sceptically. ‘You’ve not been falling for his crap about the Good-Old-Days and The-Old-Country-Isn’t-What-It-Was? Believe me, whatever Neville was doing, it was with a purpose.’ He changed the subject. ‘Fomin called. The results of the autopsy on friend Viktor are in. It’s a freak. The antibiotics used to prevent infection after his operation…’
‘Yes?’
‘They killed him.’ He didn’t wait for a reaction. He added quickly and soothingly, ‘It was contamination of the drugs. Don’t get excited about it. Fomin says it’s one of those things that can happen. The drugs get manufactured wrong or they’re stored wrong or they’re just kept too long. Fomin says there’s nothing suspicious.’ He waited for an answer and then prompted one. ‘Believe me. Bakradze was on the phone as soon as he got the news. You’d think his mother had died. He really wanted to talk to Gusev.’
Bogdanov really wanted to believe that.
Half an hour later he trudged into Kirov’s own office. He enquired, ‘Have you asked Grishin to give power to run this investigation or take us off the case? I’m up to my arse in work and don’t need this business.’
‘Grishin wants us to continue.’
‘What the hell for? Months of work have dragged in a few small dealers and one Viktor Gusev who is well and truly dead. If there are any leads Bakradze is chasing them. If Grishin doesn’t trust Bakradze why doesn’t he kick the bastard out? What’s all this liaison stuff? Since when did KGB ever liaise with anybody?’
‘Ever since we got morality.’
The day fretted to a close in a flurry of sleet. There was a power hitch local to Kirov’s floor. The photocopier and the coffee machine went down. The corridors were filled with typists complaining that they couldn’t get their work done. Kirov watched them through the window of his office.
‘I want a trace on a name,’ he told Bogdanov.
‘OK, fire away. Who?’
‘Georgi Vissarionovitch Gvishiani.’
Bogdanov recognised the surname. ‘A relative of Kosygin’s son-in-law?’
‘I don’t know. It’s unlikely. Get Tumanov to run the trace and then we’ll find out.’
Bogdanov checked his watch. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow? Better still, I’ll leave it to the Fire Brigade; it’ll give them something more to do than sit around and play cards.’ Bogdanov had a resentment against the Fire Brigade. They staffed the Centre at night against emergencies that never happened, and, when they got bored or malicious, kicked their heels in the empty offices, stole anything that wasn’t nailed down and screwed up the filing.
‘Whatever you like. It isn’t urgent.’
Bogdanov noted the name; he called his secretary and had her carry the note to the basket where the Fire Brigade checked for anything pending.
‘So who is this Gvishiani?’ he asked.
‘I met him at a party.’
‘Last night? The one where Neville Lucas set you up to face Lara? What’s our interest?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe nothing. He’s a man who is looking for influence — friends.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He runs an industrial combine in Tbilisi, makes consumer goods.’
‘Tbilisi — I should have guessed from his name.’ Bogdanov picked up the phone and called the secretary again. ‘Anya — the sheet I just gave you: make a note on it to call Tbilisi and do a search of the Georgian records.’ To Kirov he said, ‘Not that you can trust those crooks to tell you the truth. What sort of friends is Gvishiani looking for? In the Ministry of Light Industry? In KGB? People choose their friends in strange places. If he’s into a racket, it sounds like one that Radek should be investigating. Sunny Tbilisi and all those Georgian girls — just what our Hollywood stars are looking for. Have you talked to Radek?’
‘I don’t want to talk to Radek.’
‘Because he’s screwing Lara?’
‘Not that.’
‘Why not? Getting paranoid? I wouldn’t worry. Radek’s getting enough glory without needing to steal ours. It’s Grishin who should be watching his back — talking of which, is there any truth in the rumour that he’s crossed swords with the Rehabilitation Committee?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Here — there. But is it true?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bogdanov didn’t believe him. Kirov could see the disbelief. I’m tired, he thought. It’s nothing more. He looked away to avoid the other man’s scepticism. The window faced onto the inner courtyard of the Lubyanka but in this light only his reflection looked back, a faint ghost hanging above the night sky.
‘I’m going back to the Butyrka,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘I want to talk to the doctors who were treating Gusev. About the antibiotics.’
‘What about the antibiotics?’
‘Something…’ Kirov couldn’t put a name to the disquiet. He couldn’t be sure even that it had anything to do with Viktor Gusev. Perhaps Gusev was only a focus.