When the farce was over he buttonholed the spokesman on his way out, a husky man who tried to breeze by.
“I need to speak with the prosecutor for one minute.”
Through Gregor came the answer: “He is busy. He cannot see you.”
“The Washington Post has a story about why the police left the square that the prosecutor needs to confirm or deny.”
The spokesman eyed him suspiciously. “Wait,” was his answer.
Yocke waited. The other reporters drifted out, the television crew packed up lights and extension cords and cameras and departed, Gregor lit a cigarette and lounged against the podium. Yocke looked at his watch.
Fifteen minutes had passed when he looked again. Gregor was on his third cigarette.
The prosecutor bustled into the room. “Washington Post?”
“Yes.”
“What is your story?”
Yocke took a deep breath and stared the man straight in the eye. He had but two lousy bullets to fight the war with and here goes shot number one: “The police were pulled out of Soviet Square by a transmission over the police radio system.” He paused for Gregor to translate.
The prosecutor’s eyebrows knitted, but that was his sole reaction.
Yocke continued: “The police left because three KGB agents appeared in police headquarters and demanded that the police be removed from the square.”
Now the prosecutor’s eyes widened in surprise. He spewed Russian. “Where do you get this story? We announce nothing. Who talk to you?”
Yocke had counted on the man being a novice at dealing with Western reporters. He was new at the game, all right. Yocke decided to try a shot in the dark.
“Why have you relieved the police chief from his duties?”
The attorney’s face darkened a shade. He chewed on the back of his lower lip while his eyes scanned Yocke’s face. The reporter tried to remain deadpan, but it was difficult. “We are investigating,” the prosecutor finally said.
Jack Yocke bit his own lip to keep from smiling. “Will he be prosecuted?”
The man shrugged. “Maybe.”
“For obeying the KGB?”
“Who has talked to you? No one should talk during an investigation.”
“Was the police chief in conspiracy with the killers?”
“Certainly not.”
“But he should not have obeyed the KGB?”
The prosecutor took a deep breath and adjusted the jacket on his shoulders. He frowned. “This is a complex matter with many facets. We want no stories written just now. Surely you can understand that an accusation not later supported by facts would do great damage. To people’s rights. To human rights. To right to a fair trial. Surely you see that, Washington Post.”
Jack Yocke couldn’t believe his luck. He had expected stony denials and the prosecutor had denied nothing. And he had implicitly confirmed that the police chief had obeyed the orders of KGB officers, technically now Ministry of Security officers. The reporter decided to fire his last bullet and pray for a hit.
“Was Nikolai Demodov one of the KGB officers?”
The reaction was an explosive “Nyet.” Gregor translated the rest of it. “That’s a lie. Who told you this lie?”
“It was just a rumor. But you deny it?”
“Absolutely. It’s a lie.”
“Who is Nikolai Demodov?”
But the prosecutor was leaving. He turned his back and stomped away.
Jack Yocke whipped out his steno pad and furiously began taking notes.
In the car he asked Gregor, “Who is Nikolai Demodov?”
“Big man in KGB. Deputy to General Shmarov.”
“And who is Shmarov?”
“Number two man, I think. Little is printed about top Ministry of Security officers. They are Old Guard, old Communists loyal to the past. No-goodniks, most of them.”
“Shmarov is a no-goodnik? That means he’s anti-Yeltsin, antidemocratic, doesn’t it?”
The Lada squealed loudly as Gregor braked to a stop at a red traffic light. He sat hunched over the wheel staring at the red light on the pole. “I want more money,” he said with finality. “You told me you wished to write stories about life in Russia. Human being interest. You must pay me more.”
Jack Yocke rolled down the passenger window and dragged a half-bushel of pollution down into his lungs.
“You have no idea what it means to be Russian,” Gregor remarked.
The light changed and he popped the clutch and revved the tiny engine of the little sedan. Beside the car an army truck kept pace and poured noxious fumes through Yocke’s open window. The American gagged and hastily spun the crank.
“Where are we going?” he asked Gregor.
“I don’t know. You haven’t told me.”
Soviet Square, Yocke decided, and informed his colleague. Gregor just nodded.
It was a broken-down car with the hood up that gave Yocke the idea. Cars with open hoods and the drivers bent over engines that refused to run were commonplace in Moscow. In a society without spare parts, without mechanics, without garages, without service stations, you either fixed it yourself on the side of the road with parts from junked vehicles or you left it there to be mined for parts by other motorists.
He explained what he wanted to Gregor, who again demanded more money. Yocke explained about his editor’s parsimony and getting the expense approved in Washington, Moscow on the Potomac. Reluctantly Gregor agreed to help.
As they neared Soviet Square on Gorki Street Gregor turned the ignition off and let the car coast to the curb. Both men got out and raised the hood. Gregor disconnected the spark plug leads and took the top off the air filter. They put their elbows on the fender and their butts in the air and waited.
A policeman in gray uniform and white hat, carrying a white traffic baton and wearing a brown leather holster from which the butt of a small automatic protruded, arrived in three minutes. Yocke got busy under the hood and Gregor did the talking. Two minutes later, when the policeman wandered away, Gregor summed it up in a short sentence. “He was on duty in Red Square the day of the assassination.”
They tried it again around the corner. The cop this time smoked one of Gregor’s cigarettes and offered mechanical advice. They finally got the engine running and drove away waving.
“He heard the transmission over the police radio. He was one of the ones that left. The name of the policeman in charge of the radio is Burbulis.”
“We’ll make a reporter of you yet. Police station.”
It took a lot of talking and cigarettes all round from the Marlboro carton, but Gregor and Yocke got in to see Burbulis. He was a chain smoker with steel teeth. He eyed Yocke suspiciously.
“I write for the Washington Post, a great American newspaper,” Gregor translated. “I am following up a report that your chief is in trouble with the prosecutor because of the Soviet Square killings.” While Gregor translated this, Yocke tried to decide how much Burbulis liked the chief of police. He was praying for a little professional loyalty even if Burbulis loathed the man personally.
“Not his fault. I know the men. Good KGB men. We have worked together many times.”
“Names and addresses,” Yocke told Gregor, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Get names and addresses.”
They got three names and one address. And a lecture about the duty of the police to cooperate with the proper authorities. “This questioning of police doing their duty by the prosecutor would never have happened in the old days,” Burbulis summed up, and sneered. “Yeltsin has no courage. No respect. He understands nothing.” Burbulis smashed his fist on the table and glowered.