"Chairman Latishev," she cooed. "I'm impressed. But the Committee for State Security? You're not the KGB type."
"It isn't the old KGB anymore. It's different."
"Different how?"
"Well, they don't spy on people."
"Then what do they do?"
"They're concerned with economic crimes. You know, smuggling, speculation, racketeering, some of the same things I'm normally involved with. Look," he said, "what I'm doing there is highly confidential. The only thing I can say is that it really is sort of a follow-up to my old investigation."
He began a trail of kisses from her forehead, along the bridge of her nose, across her lips, onto her neck. "Now I'm going to make you forget everything you just heard," he whispered, and continued down to more interesting points.
18
When Chief Investigator Shumakov arrived at the General's office the next morning and asked about the boss, the secretary perfunctorily advised him it was "football morning."
Yuri stared at her in obvious confusion. As the new kid on the block, he hadn't been around long enough to pick up the KGB lingo. Was this a fancy name for some interoffice activity? Borovsky hadn't mentioned it.
"Football morning?" he repeated.
She was a heavyset woman whose attempt at improving her looks with makeup was an exercise in futility. It seemed to have had some affect on her personality as well. She obviously did not share the view that someone from the prosecutor's office was needed at the state security headquarters.
"Yes, football morning. You've seen his office. A chief investigator should be able to deduce that General Borovsky is one of Minsk's most avid soccer fans."
Yuri took a deep breath and held his temper. Recalling all the photos and banners, it was obvious. But that didn't answer his question. "That still doesn't tell me anything about 'football morning,'" he protested.
"In short," she said with a look of irritation, "it means there's a practice match going on at Dynamo Stadium. That's where you'll find General Borovsky."
Yuri shook his head. Somehow he hadn't pictured the hustling, fast-talking former military man as a rabid sports fan. "Would it disturb his morning if I went out there and talked to him?"
"Not at all. He's expecting you." Now, feeling she had gotten the best of him, she almost smiled. "Oh, and by the way, Prosecutor Perchik called yesterday. He'd like you to drop by to see him."
What did Perchik want, he wondered as he headed out to his car? Was there a problem? Had he left something pressing unresolved, with no one briefed to handle it? He couldn't recall any loose ends. But he knew it would be prudent to go by as early as possible. This temporary assignment was like walking a high wire at the circus. You had to keep everything in balance. The future of his career still lay in the prosecutor's hands. And Perchik was a man who demanded unquestioned fidelity.
The big stadium appeared a placid, empty chasm, as quiet as the Roman Coliseum on the gladiators' day off. Soccer was the national passion in this part of the world. Unfortunately, the Minsk team had a reputation for starting out the season strong, then fading down the stretch. The players, decked out in blue jerseys and white shorts, were on the pitch going through warm-ups. Squinting toward the small, sun-drenched group of spectators occupying the bottom row of seats at one side, Shumakov spotted Borovsky's flaming red hair. The General saw him and waved.
"Good morning, Shumakov. I hope this didn't inconvenience you."
Yuri took the seat beside him. "Glad to get out of the office, General. You must be an old soccer hand."
"Isn't everybody? Yes, I played left fullback. Did some coaching, too, in the army. How was your trip?"
Yuri told him about the capture and subsequent escape of Major Nikolai Romashchuk.
Borovsky nodded vigorously as he listened while keeping his eyes glued to the pitch, where the action had started. At one point he interrupted Yuri with a shout. "Watch the wing, Sulitsky! Sorry, Shumakov. Go ahead." When Yuri had finished, the General looked around with a smile. "But they confiscated his booty, eh?"
"I have a feeling there's a lot more where it came from."
"You're probably right." The smile slowly faded. "That uniform ploy bothers me. Do you think he might have a confederate in the Kiev Militia?"
"That's a possibility. Chief Investigator Kovalenko is putting his people to work on it. I'll check back with him in a day or so." Yuri opened the envelope he had brought with him and fished out a head shot of a bland-looking, dark-haired man staring unemotionally at the camera. "Here's Romashchuk."
The General scrutinized the photo. "Not a striking figure, is he?"
"I think that's the way he wants to look. The old detective who questioned him said he was the most convincing liar he had ever run across."
Borovsky nodded. "General Zakharov always picked his people carefully. I once had a run-in with him when I was in the GRU. He's a formidable son of a bitch."
"You were in army intelligence?"
The General nodded. "That's the background that got me this job. When the union started falling apart, the GRU, like everything else in the military, suffered a severe case of demoralization. The Party hacks knew their days were numbered. A lot of the dedicated professionals, like myself, threw their hands up and resigned. I had known Latishev a long time before he was elected Chairman. He's ex-army, too." He reached into his jacket, took out a leather wallet and removed a faded photograph, which he handed to Yuri. "That's us in more idyllic times."
Shumakov studied the smiling face of a much younger Borovsky in a captain's uniform. Another officer wearing lieutenant's insignia, obviously Chairman Latishev, stood beside him. Each of them had an arm around a busty girl at his side.
"Looks like you had the situation well in hand," Yuri said with a grin.
Borovsky grunted. "It was a situation that got out of hand. Later I was married to both of them. Not at the same time, mind you. I'm no Muslim. And I'm currently, how shall we say, unencumbered. Work and soccer are my only loves."
Yuri took another look at the uniforms and handed the picture back. "My younger brother was an army captain. He was killed in an accident a few years ago that never should have happened." He shook his head, then added, "Which reminds me, I have a score to settle on that. I'd like to go check on something in Brest. I'm due a little time off. Do you have any problem with my being gone tomorrow?"
"No. Go ahead. Maybe by the time you get back, your friend in Kiev will have some news for us."
Yuri stuffed Major Romashchuk's picture back into the envelope. "Would you check with your contacts in Moscow and have them send us a photo of General Zakharov? It would help me to know what our other fugitive looks like."
"Sure. I'll put in a call as soon as I get to the office."
From the stadium, Shumakov drove straight to the prosecutor's office. Perchik greeted him again with his politician's smile, not the scowl that would indicate he had committed some unpardonable sin. Yuri viewed it with mixed emotions.
"Sorry to bother you with such an insignificant matter, Shumakov, but I need you to consult with Repin. He's prosecuting that shooting death you investigated a few days ago."
It was hardly insignificant to the victim, Yuri reflected. But it was a rather small thing for Perchik to be concerned with. "I'll be happy to talk to Repin," he said. "But I thought Detective Khan would have taken care of everything."
"Yes. Well, Khan said you did the actual interrogation. Repin, you know, likes to get his hands on every bit of evidence available."
Right, Yuri thought, and he would have you believe he had procured it all personally. He had heard that Repin had complained about Chief Investigator Shumakov's "overly ambitious maneuverings." The man was an unreconstructed communist who held to the credo that appearances of politically correct behavior were more important than actual accomplishments. Yuri suspected that Repin feared being upstaged if he were promoted to prosecutor. He had difficulty with an astute person like Perchik not being able to see through the phony bastard.