"You'd better start calling and go right down the list."
While the ID man was on the phone, Borovsky's secretary stuck her head in the door, glanced at the man jabbering away in Polish, then said in a loud whisper, "He's back."
Yuri jotted a quick note explaining that he had to see the General. He stuck it in front of Kruszewski and headed for the KGB director's office.
"Glad you're back, Shumakov," Borovsky barked in his rapid-fire style. "The Chairman wants a status report on this investigation by the end of the week. With this CIS meeting coming up the first of the month, he's anxious for some answers. If there's a potential for trouble, he doesn't want it happening while all those people are here." He picked up a large envelope from his desk. "This just came in."
Yuri took the envelope, opened it and pulled out a photograph of a dour-looking man with close-cropped white hair wearing a neatly pressed KGB dress uniform with general's insignia. It reminded him of an old portrait of one of the czars. But this man was obviously no czarist.
"General Zakharov?" Yuri asked.
"That's your man. What did you find out about Romashchuk?"
"Some pretty bizarre things."
Yuri told about the empty casket and Father Dedov's strange tale. He decided to leave out the part about the patch of silk fabric until he had heard from the forensic technician. But he added the disappointing news that the truck driver who had sprung Romashchuk from the Kiev jail was missing.
"Did you and your Ukrainian friend reach any conclusion on what had been in the casket?" Borovsky asked.
"No. Oleg Kovalenko wondered if it had been money, or maybe gold. I doubt it since they apparently use Swiss bank accounts."
"What's your next move?"
"I came across another name I'd like to check out with your man in Moscow. The KGB general at the Romashchuk burial was named Valentin Malmudov." He didn't bother explaining how he knew that.
"My contact is a man named Orlov. Why don't you call him yourself. He knows you're working with me. Here's his number."
Yuri walked back to his office and found Paul Kruszewski wearily mopping the perspiration from his red face.
"How's it going?"
"Nobody has handled any recent cargo from Ukraine." He looked down at his sheet and marked off the last one he had called. "I have only one left.?"
"Don't stop now."
Kruszewski shrugged and placed the call. After explaining what he was looking for, he glanced up at Yuri, eyes widening. He placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "He remembers something from Kiev."
After what seemed an interminable wait, the heavyset man began to make notes. When he had finished, he replaced the phone and smiled.
Yuri found the suspense unbearable. "Well?"
"He had heard about the missing trucker. Said he was sure it was the man who delivered a large crate of binocular lenses, which they loaded aboard a cargo liner called Bonnie Prince. It's the ship that left yesterday. Scottish-owned, Liberian registry."
"Where is it headed?"
"Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. First port of call is Veracruz, Mexico."
Mexico? Yuri pondered that for a moment. It certainly wasn't the sort of destination he might have expected. Then he looked back at Kruszewski. "Is that where the crate was going?"
"Right. Consigned to the North Star Trading Company, care of an agent in Veracruz named Gerardo Salinas. Be there in about fifteen days. I recall there's a plant in Kiev that makes various kinds of lenses. What's all the excitement over lenses for binoculars? That some new kind of secret weapon?" He had a half-grin.
You're close, thought Yuri. "I suspect something entirely different was hidden among those lenses. Thanks for your help."
After Kruszewski had left, Yuri called the man named Orlov in Moscow and asked him to check the KGB archives for General Valentin Malmudov. By then it was lunchtime. He walked across the street to a stand-up snack bar and ordered dranniki, Belarusian potato pancakes stuffed with meat and fried in lard. To those around him, he appeared a man in a trance as he stared at the plate and slowly picked at his food.
From what Borovsky had said, the Chairman was obviously pushing him. The pressure was building. But Yuri was determined to go home early tonight, spend some time with Petr and Aleksei. Maybe plan some kind of weekend outing. And he'd do some serious pillow-talking with Larisa after the lights were out. In the morning, he would take her by the hospital on his way to work. She would see a new Yuri.
Back at the office, he received a call from Moscow.
"This is Orlov," a businesslike voice said. "You're in luck. The computer turned up no Valentin Malmudov, but I have my own impeccable source. He's been retired for some time now. Spent his entire career at KGB, knows the place and the people inside out. He says the name 'Valentin Malmudov' was long ago erased from the files. It was an alias used by Valeri Zakharov."
"Malmudov is Zahkarov?"
"Undoubtedly. Where did you find him? I understand you turned up Major Romashchuk's footprints in Kiev. Has the General been there, too?"
"Yes. But I don't know if he was there recently." He briefly explained the fake burial and the revisit to the casket by parties unknown.
"The odds are ten to one he was there," said Orlov. "You have no idea what they had hidden in the grave?"
"Not as yet, but I'm working hard on running it down."
"Well, keep us posted on what you find."
Yuri spread the photos of Zakharov and Romashchuk on his desk. He studied both faces carefully, imbedding the images in his mind. Then he thought of Vadim Trishin. Trishin had easily recognized the Major. If Valentin Malmudov was indeed General Zakharov, he should have no trouble with that one, either. Orlov's information made it a virtual certainty, but Trishin could cinch the identification. And Yuri wouldn't need to make a trip to Brest this time. He would simply mail a copy of the photo and get Trishin's reaction.
Yuri called the Brest Vacuum Works and got the pretty receptionist he had met there on Friday.
"I'd like to speak with Vadim Trishin in sales, please," he told her.
She replied hesitantly. "Mr. Trishin is no longer with us. Could—"
"What do you mean Vadim Trishin is no longer with you?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Trishin… died last week."
Something like an electric shock went through Yuri's body. Trishin dead? Surely there was some mistake. "I just talked to him on Friday," he protested.
"It must have been Friday morning," she said in an apologetic tone. "He died that afternoon."
"I can't believe this. What happened? An accident?"
"No, sir. Somebody killed him. If you'd like to talk—"
"Thank you," he said and dropped the phone in its cradle.
He sat there breathing deeply and feeling limp, like he had just finished a strenuous workout. Killed Friday afternoon? He had left Trishin outside his apartment around two o'clock. What could have happened? A robbery? Recalling the motorcycle mechanic shot by his brother-in-law, he wondered if it could have been a vodka-induced slaying?
24
The ringing phone jarred him out of his stupor. "Shumakov," he said.
"Yuri Danilovich," said the troubled voice of Oleg Kovalenko, "I tried to call earlier but couldn't get through. I had a very disturbing visitor this morning."
Yuri was instantly alert. Kovalenko was not his usual jovial self. "Who?"
"A detective from Brest."
"Brest? What did he want?" Still shaken by the news of Trishin's death, he could not imagine what this was all about.
"He had been digging around at the Defense Ministry and was referred to me by Colonel Oskin. You and I met with the Colonel on Wednesday morning. Remember? You left for home that afternoon. Did you go to Brest after that?"