‘Not the same as yours. The connection is purely accidental. Our interest was more political.’
‘I thought that political cases were for KGB?’
Kolomeitsev smiled wryly. ‘Things change.’ He produced a piece of frankness as genuine as a magician’s card. ‘Look, I can’t promise to be totally open with you — in this business, who can? But on the basis that we are co-operating, I can tell you that our investigation had nothing to do with the economic aspects of the case. Have you produced a report? Why don’t you let me have a copy? I could straighten you out. That’s fair, isn’t it?’
‘Where does the economic end and the political begin?’
‘That’s exactly my point! Now what do you say to a copy of your report?’
‘I might be able to arrange that,’ Kirov agreed, and as an afterthought added, ‘The American, Craig — is he political or economic? Mine or yours?’
‘Mine — but not for any reasons to do with our investigations into the plant.’ Kolomeitsev betrayed another confidence. ‘The Bulpharma plant was built to licensed technology belonging to an American company, the Lee Foundation.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, there’s a second plant. It was built here in the Soviet Union without the knowledge of the licensor. William Craig assisted us in converting the Bulgarian designs to meet Soviet conditions of production. What can I tell you? Craig is one of the good guys. He’s on our side.’
They finished their meeting with mutual expressions of goodwill. They exchanged complaints about their respective superiors and made a few imprudent remarks about their services. This proved that they were friends.
Kolomeitsev showed him to the door. The receptionist was gone; darkness had fallen. It was the time of day when people stand at the doors of their offices and make small talk with their neighbours.
‘I’ll say goodbye then. Till next time. Wait here and someone will come and sign you out.’
Kolomeitsev offered a hand. Behind him the door of the next room opened and a figure emerged. ‘I’ll see you as soon as you’re finished,’ the stranger said to the Major, and seeing Kirov his eyes registered a slight surprise. ‘Fix some coffee,’ he continued, ‘oh — and something to eat, a biscuit, a sandwich, whatever is available.’ He spared Kirov a stranger’s nod. A sparse red quiff was all that remained of his hair; his face was round and bland; his eyes mild and apparently without lashes or brows because of his paleness; his age perhaps sixty and running to fat. Kirov felt a pang of recognition.
‘See me as soon as you can,’ the stranger told Kolomeitsev curtly and treated Kirov to a more leisurely scan. He said, softly so that Kirov was scarcely sure he heard the words, ‘We must talk some time, Pyotr Andreevitch.’ Then his back was turned and he had stepped quickly into his office leaving only a snapshot image. In his left hand he held a half-eaten cake and on his nose there was a dab of cream.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kirov returned to Dzerzhinsky Square. It was evening and the Fire Brigade was in occupation. He interrupted their chess game to ask whether there was anything for him from the diplomatic bag or the radio decodes from Washington. He was told no.
He went to his office and there found a parcel on his desk and a scrawled note from Bogdanov. Uncle Bog had listed the bars where he might be found. Kirov pocketed the note and turned to the parcel. It was wrapped in newspaper and roughly taped. He cut it open and threw away the wrapping. What he uncovered was a porcelain figure of a shepherdess.
Taking Uncle Bog’s list, Kirov tracked him through the city’s bars. Bogdanov was known at the Zhiguli beer cellar. Someone had seen him talking to a fence called Yuri the Bazaar; they had done some serious drinking and then pushed off in the company of two girls. Kirov followed them, working from Bogdanov’s list, to the bar in Stoleshnikov Lane. He ran into Yuri the Bazaar and the two girls outside the Aragvi restaurant. Yuri was looking groggy and applying snow to a graze on his cheek. One of the girls told the story: yes, they had gone to the bar; Bogdanov, the creep, was drinking like a madman and had picked a fight with his companion; the militia had been called, but Bogdanov had squared them and paid for the mess. When last seen he had been heading for the metro and talking about taking a train to Taganka. There was a bar near the theatre, the third on the list.
The place had a hanging atmosphere of smoke and sweat. Bogdanov was at a table, sipping morosely at a flat beer. He brushed a hand across his face, smearing it with misery, then, noticing Kirov, pulled out a smile from somewhere and laid it out beneath his old muddied eyes like stones buried in a swamp. ‘You found my present,’ he said.
‘I found it.’
‘Want a drink?’
‘I’m OK.’
‘I want a drink.’ He looked around as if one might turn up. ‘How was the Aquarium?’ he asked. ‘Red carpet treatment — undying love — did you get to see Heltai?’
‘No.’ Kirov was still asking himself whether it was Heltai he had encountered in the corridor.
‘Who’d you see, then?’
‘A major called Kolomeitsev. He told me that the American is working for us, and he offered me a deal if I would collaborate with him.’
But Bogdanov wasn’t listening.
‘Heltai — I’ve been checking out this Heltai,’ he said, and between the dreamy words yelled out for a drink for anyone who cared to hear. Then: ‘Hungarian — old hand with AVH in the bad old days — cut his teeth during the purges in the early fifties — ran for cover to us when Imre Nagy and the Fascists took over in ’fifty-six and started rehabilitating the victims. GRU took him up.’ He shook his head to and fro in long drunken swings. ‘A Naughty Boy, this Heltai. Definitely!’
‘Who’s your friend?’ a surly stranger asked Kirov.
‘Fuck off,’ said Bogdanov leaving the stranger frozen out with indifference. ‘Fuck off,’ he repeated, then leaned forward confidingly and had a couple of shots at resting his hand on his chin.
‘How is Heltai a Naughty Boy?’ Kirov asked.
‘A bogeyman — a widow-maker. He used to globetrot doing wet jobs for the GRU station chiefs. Bang-bang. Yes!’
‘Why didn’t I hear of him when I was stationed in Washington?’
‘Not his patch. The Western Residents have too much muscle to allow GRU killers in their territories. Heltai worked the Afro-Asian beat, killing coons for his masters. He couldn’t look you in the eye without sizing you for a coffin. Specialises in poisons. Has a degree in it — or something.’
Kirov did not press his questions. Something had given Bogdanov a scare and he was wiping it out with drink. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Bloody smoke,’ he murmured and wiped them on his sleeve. ‘Want a drink?’
‘Where did you come by the figure?’
Bogdanov put a cigarette to his lips and fumbled with some matches.
‘You know Yuri the Bazaar?’
‘I saw him.’
‘Bastard — sell his mother. Ah…’ Bogdanov inhaled deeply and leaned back so that his chair tottered on the point of overturning. He kept it like that so Kirov had to follow the conversation with a knot of tension in his guts, waiting for the collapse.
‘Yuri?’ he prompted.
‘Yuri — sure. I run into him in Dzerzhinsky Street where he bangs around the club looking for a bit of trade, a chance to do some favours.’
‘What sort of favours?’
‘This — that.’ Wobble, wobble, went the chair. ‘Stolen goods. Some of the boys get a little light-fingered when visiting other people’s premises. Yuri helps them out.’
‘He bought the figure?’
‘I’m walking down the street and I see him holding it. Hi, Yuri! I say. Nice bit of stuff — where’d you get it? And we settle for a hundred roubles on the spot. I don’t have the money on me, but I have an honest face. So take the pot to your room and tell Yuri I’ll settle with him later in the Zhiguli.’