"You said there was a general and another officer. What rank was he?"
"A major."
"Did you get a look at him?"
"Yes. It was a warm day and I remember he had on a short-sleeve shirt and no hat. He had dark hair and a disinterested sort of look on his face. It struck me as a bit odd. He was probably late thirties, compactly built."
Shumakov was impressed by Trishin's memory, as well as his detailed observation. He had the sudden, eerie feeling that Trishin could be describing Major Nikolai Romashchuk. But that was highly unlikely. He was about to move on to another question when a small voice inside his head objected. Hold it! A competent investigator checks out every possibility, no matter how unlikely.
He fished around in his briefcase and brought out the photo of Major Romashchuk. "Have you ever seen this fellow?"
Trishin stared at the picture, then back at Yuri. "Where did you… that's him, the major. I'd swear it. He was sitting next to General Malmudov."
"Malmudov?" Now Yuri stared. "How do you know—"
"When they drove up, he told me he was General Valentin Malmudov."
"You can recall—"
"The mnemonics system I told you about, remember? I thought I might have to deal with him later on, but he didn't stick around."
Yuri smiled. This was a bonus he had hardly expected. Not only had he established that the mysterious Nikolai Romashchuk was involved, but now he had another name to check out in the old KGB archives. Recalling the date, a full month following the coup, he thought it almost a certainty Romashchuk and his buddies had already been suspended by Bakatin, the new reformist head of the KGB.
He knew the storage building under Anatoli's command had contained all sorts of ammunition, plus a supply of weapons such as grenade launchers, machineguns and mortars. Could this have been a theft operation? Those weapons and ammunition should have brought a good price from terrorists or third world revolutionaries, both groups the KGB had been in contact with. Perhaps that was how some of the cash had been raised for the Swiss bank accounts.
"Did you get a look into the back of the truck as they were leaving?" he asked.
"No." Trishin shook his head. "It was covered with canvas."
Yuri continued to probe for more details as they walked back to Vadim Trishin's apartment, but the young salesman could recall nothing else of significance. This time Yuri did not even bother to look around for strangers. It was simply inconceivable that anyone could be following him. Maybe, in the old days, the KGB could have done it, if he were involved in a case they were concerned with. But this was a different era. There was no place for that sort of thing now.
Shumakov thanked Trishin as they stopped in front of the apartment building. "You've given me a couple of good leads to check out."
As he was about to leave, the shabbily dressed old fellow he had seen earlier came out of the building carrying a small cloth bag. He wore a tattered jacket with an army medal pinned over the left breast. He reminded Yuri of a refugee from the ethnic violence in one of the more volatile states of the commonwealth. It was a picture he had seen many times on the TV news.
"Going somewhere, Mr. Zhuk?" Trishin inquired.
"Two days I will spend with my no good son in Kobrin," the old man growled. "That's as much as I can stand."
Trishin smiled. "I'll look after things while you're gone." He turned back to Yuri as the old fellow tottered off down the street. "My neighbor. He's a bit of an eccentric, but a nice old man at heart."
"I met him earlier," Yuri said with a nod. He reached out to shake Trishin's hand. "I'll be back in touch if I think of anything else."
When he reached the turn that would take him back toward Minsk, Shumakov glanced at his watch. Only 2:15. It was still early. Why not have a look at the Brest Fortress before heading back, he thought? It didn't take much to prod him into detouring where a historic site was concerned. Now the idea seemed even more appealing, considering the mood he was in. Since leaving Vadim Trishin's apartment, he had been troubled by a disquieting feeling, a nagging thought that he was overlooking something important. Maybe he needed to divert his mind into other channels. Then he could take a fresh look at the situation later as he drove home.
20
After Yuri Shumakov had left, Vadim Trishin retrieved a bag of fruit from his car, then headed for his small apartment to pick up a list of prospective customers he had neglected to take to work that morning. He entered the building oblivious to the two men following not far behind.
He hustled up the darkened stairway, crossed to his door and unlocked it. Taped there with all the pomp of a brass nameplate was one of his new business cards. It was a mark of the pride he had in his new status as a salesman. He went back to the kitchen alcove and placed the bag in the sink. It contained oranges and apples given him that morning by Svetlana, the dark-eyed, sensitive girl from Baku who was a secretary at the Vacuum Works. They were in love. He had done well in his sales job and would soon have enough money to ask her to marry him.
The knock at the door startled him. Had Yuri Shumakov already returned with another probing question? He was beginning to regret ever taking those photographs to Minsk.
He opened the door to find not Shumakov but two strangers. One was tall, with a bald head and a spare face. The other had fleshy jowls that sagged beneath oval-shaped lenses mounted in thin metal frames. Neither appeared capable of a smile.
"Vadim Trishin?" said the shorter man.
"Yes."
"I'm Detective Fomin. This is Sergeant Latsina. We're from the Brest Militia. We'd like to talk with you."
Trishin frowned. Plain clothes officers. "Have I done something wrong?"
"No," said Fomin. "We want to talk with you about someone else."
Trishin opened the door wider. "Come on in."
Inside Trishin's compact living room-dining room-kitchen, the detective sat in a straight-back chair across from Vadim while the Sergeant stood nearby. "You have been meeting with a man who claims to be Yuri Shumakov."
"Claims to be?" said Trishin with a look of disbelief. "He is Yuri Shumakov. I served in the army under his brother, Captain Anatoli Shumakov."
Fomin nodded. "Why did Yuri Shumakov come all the way from Minsk to visit an employee of the Brest Vacuum Works?"
What was this all about, Trishin wondered? Shumakov was a chief investigator for the prosecutor in Minsk. Why would the local militia be asking questions about him?
"His brother was killed in a military accident several years ago in Ukraine. I was there. He wanted to talk to me about it."
"If it was so long ago, why is he asking questions now?"
"Because the army never finished its investigation. He had just checked the files in Kiev and was following up on it."
"Whose army asked him to complete the investigation?"
"Nobody's army. He's doing it on his own. Look, if you're all that interested in the case, why don't you ask him about it?"
"We're asking you!" Sergeant Latsina's bark was like a warning shot aimed to assure they had his full attention.
Fomin's eyes hardened and his jowls shook, giving him the look of a bulldog ready to bite. "What did Shumakov want to know?"
Trishin had done nothing wrong. They had admitted as much. Now he was getting a bit weary of these two. He glared at the detective as he answered. "He wanted to know about a KGB inspection team. They had been at our compound just before the fatal explosion."
The two men exchanged guarded glances. "What did you tell him?" Fomin asked.