‘For help, what else? Will you have another drink?’ Without waiting he got up to pour one and talked as he poured. ‘Who would have thought that with my record I’d be facing corruption charges out of the construction racket? It’s incredible!’
‘Is it? It depends on whether or not you’re guilty.’
‘Don’t be bloody stupid, of course I’m guilty! What’s that got to do with anything? Here.’ Scherbatsky handed over the glass.
‘You knew it was illegal.’
‘Sure it’s illegal! That’s not the point. Nobody ever told me it was wrong!’ He finished his drink. He had brought the bottle over and now poured himself another one but let it lie.
‘What do you think of my prison?’ He waved an arm to take in the crowded mass of dull wood and upholstery.
‘There are worse.’
‘That’s what they tell me. “We’re being good to you, Ivan Pavlovitch” — that’s the story — in return for my co-operation.’
‘Who are “they”?’
‘Komarev from Special Investigations and Petruk from your lot — he’s the case-officer but I don’t know who he works for.’
‘Radek.’
‘Shit!’ Scherbatsky murmured and took a sip from his glass. ‘Radek is a star. He’ll want to make a big production out of this business. I was hoping…’
‘What?’
‘That Petruk might be working for you. I’ve heard that you’re a reasonable man. Is there any chance…?’
‘No.’
‘Ah — well, so much for hope.’
Kirov let him drift for a few seconds in hopelessness.
‘What co-operation do they want?’
‘They don’t tell me.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Nothing is obvious. Even confession isn’t obvious.’ He spat the word out. ‘Crime and confession aren’t related — you know that. Confessions don’t close the door on a crime, they open new doors onto other things. What am I supposed to confess to? What do they want the confession for? They don’t tell me. I’m supposed to guess.’
‘What’s your guess?’
Scherbatsky didn’t answer. Instead he asked miserably, ‘Are you frightened of pain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. I’m frightened that they’ll take me inside — understand? I don’t think I could take it if they really gave me the business.’
‘That’s not Radek’s style.’
‘Isn’t it? That’s not what I’ve heard.’
‘Not these days. There’s been a change. You’re here, aren’t you?’
‘For how long?’
Scherbatsky got up and took a few paces about the room, halting by the window. ‘Our friends have arrived.’ Kirov joined him and saw the black Volga saloon parked in the street and a man quizzing the children. Not GIA, the highway police used yellow patrol cars. A call from the traffic post back at the junction to the local MVD? A wind had got up and the branches of the wild elders swayed. The cracked bark was hung with liverish swags of Jew’s ear fungus (why Jewish?). Scherbatsky stared at the view indifferently and continued to talk.
‘What do you know about my case?’
‘Your cousin was in a racket doing illegal construction work. You found customers for him.’
‘It sounds simple when you put it like that. But have you ever thought who those customers might be? The names?’
‘It’s not my case.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be such a prig!’ Scherbatsky snapped. Then: ‘Sorry. Temper temper, must watch our tempers. Forget what I said. Not priggish, eh? Cautious, yes?’ He took another sip of vodka, toasted the world outside the window, and turned away so that his face was now in shadow and his hair a halo against the light. ‘Does Radek really want the names?’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Kirov answered neutrally and found Scherbatsky watching him with a sly regard as if he had uttered some deep wisdom. It was a response to the interrogator’s air of power as if Kirov’s every banality had become as subtle as the word of God. Having striven to create this effect, Kirov was depressed by it. He wished that Scherbatsky would be finished — but in an interrogation even the interrogator had a price to pay. Scherbatsky said, ‘Does Radek want the names I know? Or does he want some other names? You understand “other names”?’
Kirov understood. One of Grishin’s stories came back to him. Academician I.A. Yakovlevitch had figured as an ‘other name’ in one version of the Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring, dropped into the plot because at a certain time and place his name was convenient. Had the surgeon appreciated his danger, or had he passed in ignorance through the whole episode? Scherbatsky couldn’t leave the idea alone.
‘It can’t be me they want. They can’t put me on trial. A KGB major involved in corruption? It would be unthinkable. It has to be someone else that they’re after.’
He chose to ignore the fact that these days you could put KGB majors on trial.
‘Maybe they’ll retire you,’ Kirov offered as consolation, and he saw the other man brighten up. But he couldn’t avoid the thought that like the Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring this conspiracy floated free of any form, a name without content, a conspiracy waiting for conspirators to join it. His curiosity was mixed with his boredom. The Moscow construction fraud tingled with hidden meaning — yet Scherbatsky, dull and greedy and as predictable as the pages of a cheap book, lay as a thing without interest. Kirov asked, ‘What do you have to offer me?’
‘The location of Gusev’s dacha. Interested, huh? You didn’t know there was one, did you?’
Scherbatsky’s smugness was irritating but Kirov ignored it. Losers often gloated over their petty successes, and Scherbatsky was a loser: he bought Chinese watches and thought he had a smart deal.
‘There had to be one somewhere.’
‘Somewhere — where’s “somewhere”? There’s no way anyone could know about Viktor’s place unless he’d been there.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because Viktor was a clever sod. Too clever by half. Yes,’ Scherbatsky repeated thoughtfully, ‘too clever by half. He took the dacha in the name of one of his subordinates — all the paperwork, everything. The poor devil probably doesn’t even know.’
‘But you do.’
Scherbatsky laughed. His voice descended to a low chuckle, then, catching the hysterical undertone, he sniffed and took another drink. ‘You’re not drinking?’ he asked. Kirov raised his glass as a token. Scherbatsky ran his fingers through his hair and stared into his own glass as if he could hide in it.
‘I can’t bear pain,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t face Radek tearing my brain out.’
‘It isn’t like that.’
‘I’ll give them any names they like — true — false — I don’t give a damn. Get Radek to understand that. Find out what he wants, who he’s moving against.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Kirov promised.
‘Do that.’ Scherbatsky paused as if some urgent idea had come to him, but it was a repetition of an earlier theme. ‘Why don’t you take this case over? Believe me, it’s in your interests.’
‘Why is that?’
Scherbatsky shook his head. ‘Forget it. I can’t say … I mean … oh, stuff it, I’m pissed.’ Then, with a show of warmth, he reached into his pocket, found something and forced the object into Kirov’s hand. ‘Here, take this — we’re friends, aren’t we?’ Kirov uncurled his fingers and looked into his open palm. It held a watch — a Rolex. The story about Scherbatsky’s Chinese watch was wrong in one particular. It was made for a man.
‘Nice, huh?’ Scherbatsky said. ‘Keep it. It’s not a good time-keeper, but that can be fixed. The gold is real gold plate.’