Yuri's face was drawn into a puzzled frown. What the devil was Oleg getting at? "Yes. I went to Brest on Friday."
"To see that boy who was in your brother's outfit?"
"Vadim Trishin? Yes. What does—"
"What did you want with him?
"I needed to see what he could remember about the KGB team that visited my brother just before his death."
"What did you learn? Why didn't you mention it when we went to open that grave yesterday?"
Yuri didn't like the trend of his questions. If he told Kovalenko about Trishin's identification of Major Romashchuk, or the alias that had led to General Zakharov, it might compromise General Borovsky's investigation. "Damn, Oleg," he said. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk about that. I should have told you before, I suppose. I'm involved in a highly sensitive matter for the Belarus government. I can try to get clearance to bring you in on it. But I think—"
"I think, Yuri Shumakov, that you had better forget that shit and start looking for a good defense lawyer."
"A what?"
"That detective from Brest said you are the prime suspect in the stabbing death of Vadim Trishin. He was killed sometime around three o'clock last Friday at his apartment."
"Oh, my God!" Yuri slumped forward in his chair and let his forehead fall into his hand. How could they…?
"He was stabbed thirty-three times with a butcher knife. I hope to hell someone can swear to the time you got back to Minsk, and that it proves you had left Brest before three."
"But I didn't, Oleg. I left Trishin at his apartment around two. Then I went over and toured the Brest Fortress and museum. I didn't leave Brest till five or after."
"You're saying you didn't kill him?"
"Of course I didn't kill him." If Oleg could believe it, he realized suddenly, anyone could.
"I hoped you didn't. But it doesn't sound good, my friend. They found an old guy, a neighbor, who saw a man fitting your description talking to Trishin in front of the apartment building around two. Did you see anyone at the fortress who could place you there?"
"No. I was just one of hundreds of tourists."
"I was afraid of that."
By now the shock had diminished to the point that his mind had become analytical again. "Why would I want to kill Vadim Trishin?" Yuri asked.
"Someone who wouldn't identify himself called the militia. He said Trishin had told him you had been harassing him, that you blamed him for your brother's death."
"That's absurd."
"Maybe so, but now they've come up with another angle."
"Like what?"
"I hate to say it, but I guess I'm responsible."
"You?"
"Yes. The detective told me about Trishin's statement, what he said about the KGB team that was with your brother just before the explosion. When I realized that fake burial took place the next day, I mentioned our discovery at the Church of the Blessed Savior. That it involved a KGB major also."
"Oh, God."
"The detective had read other parts of the army file. Said your brother had been accused earlier of involvement in the theft of weapons under his control. The detective figured the KGB bunch was stealing weapons with your brother's help. Then he was accidentally killed in the explosion designed as a cover-up. He theorized that you were involved, too, and Trishin found out about it. He threatened to expose you, so you killed him."
"What can I say? None of that is true." But it was too close to the scenario he had come up with. To make matters worse, Trishin was slain with a butcher knife. It wouldn't take long for someone at the prosecutor's office to remember Yuri Shumakov, the "Butcher of Minsk." Add to that the strain he had exhibited on arriving home from Brest that night and a skilled prosecutor, someone like Perchik, could put it all together and absolutely nail him to the cross. And he had no alibi.
"I'm sorry, Yuri Danilovich. I wish there was some way I could help."
"Thanks, Oleg. You've already helped. At least I know what's coming. At the moment, I'm not sure what I'll do."
"Good luck, friend."
Yuri sat at his desk and stared at the photos of the former KGB officers, but nothing registered in his mind except the ghastly news that Oleg Kovalenko had related. It was ridiculous, and yet it was completely believable. Obviously the anonymous caller had set him up. Who could have done it, and why? Did someone want him out of the way? He didn't know anyone in Brest other than Vadim Trishin.
And then he remembered the black Chaika with the two men in front he had spotted at the park. They had probably been at the vacuum cleaner factory and at the restaurant. What he had dismissed as absurd now appeared something quite different. They had been tailing him, perhaps all the way from Minsk. He realized now that he had not thought to look for them as he and Trishin had walked back to the apartment. If they had seen him leave for the fortress, they could easily have followed Trishin inside and killed him. But why?
He became suddenly conscious again of the photographs on his desk. Were these two involved somehow? Yuri knew that he could have stirred some waves with his three-day trip to Kiev. What if the militia captain who "loaned" his uniform had not done it so innocently as he claimed? He could have learned that a Minsk investigator was muddying the waters. If this was really a widespread conspiracy, as Borovsky feared, it could have marked him as someone to watch.
Following that line of reasoning, he soon came up with a motive for Vadim Trishin's murder. If the men tailing him assumed he had gone to Brest in pursuit of information regarding Major Romashchuk, they could have questioned Trishin to find out what he knew. Then they killed him, both to shut him up and to have a method of getting Chief Investigator Shumakov off their backs. Yuri knew it would be better than simply eliminating him. He would not only be out of the way but whatever he had turned up so far might tend to be suspect.
He realized that selling this possibility to the Brest prosecutor was likely the only defense he could mount to a highly circumstantial, but seemingly airtight, charge of murder. Then it occurred to him that he could not explain any of this without divulging state secrets that he had been forbidden to discuss with anyone but General Borovsky.
That left only one option. He had to get to the General before the Brest militia and convince him that a leak had developed in their security, that he was being framed for a murder he did not commit. He hurried down the hall to Borovsky's office, only to learn that the director was out again. He wasn't expected to return until late afternoon.
Back at his desk, Yuri thought of Larisa. He had to tell her also. He didn't want her hearing it from anyone else. The detective had been gathering evidence in Kiev this morning. Probably someone from Brest was already on the way to Minsk.
Larisa had been told two visitors were awaiting her in a small conference room near the hospital administrator's office. She had no idea who it could be. When she entered the room, she found two men seated at one end of a long, oval-shaped table. They stood and turned toward her. They were unsmiling, dressed in conservative business suits, their watchful eyes following her like two hawks perched on a fence rail. She shuddered at the chill they gave to the room.
"You are the wife of Yuri Danilovich Shumakov?" one of them asked. He was about Yuri's size, with a disagreeably testy voice.
"Yes." She frowned. Had Yuri been in an accident? Had he been shot? These two had the flinty look of bearers of bad tidings.
"Please sit down. We're from the Brest Militia. My name is Moroz. This is my partner, Olenev."
The partner, stocky with thinning black hair, bobbed his head silently.