They walked over to the apartment house. Kirov checked his watch; seven o’clock and the day turning to a faint glimmer in a sky banked with grey cloud and underfoot a crust of ice on the snow. He showed his badge to the militiaman at the door. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Half an hour, comrade Colonel.’
Bogdanov stuffed a hand into his pocket and came up with a piece of dry bread and some cheese wrapped in newspaper. He offered it to Kirov. ‘You had breakfast? I hate these early jobs. Still, seven o’clock is almost civilised.’
There was a cage elevator but it was locked. They took the stairs, showing their badges to the guards on the landings. Outside Gusev’s apartment Bogdanov took the guard aside. ‘How’s it going? Any shots? Screams? Breaking glass?’
‘They’re talking,’ the guard said blankly.
‘Talking — cosy. Gusev in there?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many with him?’
‘Two of them, Antipov and some big chief from the Public Prosecutor’s Office.’
Bogdanov grunted and bit into his cheese. ‘All this muscle and yet they go in there on their own. Wonderful!’ He slipped his spare hand over the handle and tried a gentle turn. ‘It’s unlocked,’ he observed quietly to Kirov. ‘Looks like they’re not expecting to be disturbed.’ He wiped his hands on the scrap of wrapping paper and dropped it down the well of the stairs. He scrutinised the door panels, then Kirov, who was examining the skylight with its art-deco glasswork.
‘Nice place, boss? How many rooms, do you think — two — three? It’s incredible the way some people can afford to live! Did I tell you he was a bachelor?’
‘No.’ Kirov turned from his own thoughts. He was used to Bogdanov moralising before they made an arrest. ‘Let’s go in.’
They passed through the door silently. A short hallway lay in front and two more doors. They picked the second from where the voices were coming; Bogdanov turned the handle and shouldered the door sharply open so that it banged against the wall. Three men stared with varying degrees of surprise in the direction of the intrusion.
‘Good morning, comrades.’ Kirov entered the room, glanced at the occupants and took in the scene. Gusev was living well if tastelessly. The walls of the room were papered in a deep red flock, the chairs were upholstered in a burgundy moquette and the carpet was Chinese. Pink and indigo chintz covered the windows; the curtains were open and the window gave a view of the street. In one corner stood a cocktail bar, and next to it a number of small boxes piled on the floor with cotton wool and tissue paper spilling out of them.
‘Come in, come in.’ Bakradze was on his feet and, after a second of hesitation, looking puppy-dog pleased, an expression that came to him easily since his face was naturally open and bore a surprised look as if he had been awarded a prize. Today he was looking as clean and fresh as his car and wearing a suit for the occasion. With small deft movements he offered a chair and continued eagerly, ‘Come in; close the door. At this stage we’re just asking a few questions. This is our subject — is the word “subject”? — Viktor Gusev. Viktor Maximovitch, may I introduce comrade Colonel Kirov, who is from another organ of law enforcement. Comrade Colonel, this is Viktor Maximovitch Gusev who is assisting us with our enquiries.’
Kirov let his attention drift from Bakradze to the owner of the apartment, Viktor Gusev. How old? Fifty or so. Handsome in a studied way, with grey eyebrows and black hair; large-featured in a fashion that a film-maker might favour, reminding Kirov of — the image fled him. The point was in any case inconsequential; he stored the impression until later, and in the meantime noted the calm hands folded across each other with well-clipped nails and a ring in heavy gold set with a single sapphire. The look of an impresario — was that it? Gusev was wearing tan slacks and a cotton shirt and had had time to shave. Meanwhile Bakradze was saying, ‘We’re about finished here. CID will do the search. We can complete the interrogation at Petrovka. By the way, do you know Antipov?’
Kirov knew Antipov; in a way the detective was Bakradze’s opposite, no ambition or innocence, and accidentally sinister from bad health, bad habits and too much time associating with criminals. Lots of policemen got to look like Antipov as they faced retirement, and their appearance didn’t particularly signify. Bakradze explained, ‘We’re working together,’ meaning the Public Prosecutor’s Office and the Anti-Corruption Squad.
Kirov nodded to Antipov and returned his attention to Gusev’s hands. You could learn a lot from hands, and about Gusev’s there was a disturbing and unruffled calm that was inappropriate to his situation. No doubt it would explain itself.
‘Why wasn’t I told about this arrest?’
‘Oh, didn’t you get the message? I assumed you must have — I mean, here you are, yes? In any case,’ Bakradze suggested, ‘the actual arrests are not KGB’s concern — not as such, are they? I thought that your people had only a watching brief, or so we were told. It was in the co-ordination procedure, a watching brief, I believe those were the words, but you can check for yourself. He had identified conciliation as appropriate. ‘I hope you’re not dissatisfied?’ He was looking at Antipov. ‘We would have sent you a transcript of the interrogation.’ Antipov grunted in support. ‘Can I say fairer than that?’
A clattering came from the next room. Bogdanov emerged from the kitchen with a piece of ham stuffed in his fist. He went to the bar, helped himself to some cigarettes from a bark box that stood with the glasses, and disappeared again into the bedroom. Kirov used the distraction to ask, ‘The arrest — what was the basis?’
‘A source,’ answered Bakradze, trying to follow Bogdanov’s noisy wanderings with one ear. ‘Look,’ he urged, ‘this isn’t the time and place to go into that.’ The suspect was sitting upright, alert for cues. Yet aloof, Kirov thought. The owner of the apartment had the face of a manipulator: what he didn’t control didn’t happen. No — it was too early to reach conclusions. Kirov filed the impression and confined himself to watching Gusev ask casually for a cigarette. Antipov passed him the bark box. Bakradze continued: ‘In any case, who cares how we got onto him? The evidence is all here. We don’t need anything else.’ He waved a finger at the pile of boxes. Kirov picked one up. Antipov got up from his seat, coughing. He was a heavily built, grizzled man, yellow-skinned and yellow-eyed, the type who stands too near and whose clothes smell of tobacco smoke. He looked like someone not long for the world, and Kirov wondered if he knew. As the detective moved, his damp black overcoat fell open and briefly revealed a gun tucked into a holster, which in turn was worn over a woollen cardigan. Kirov resumed his examination of the boxes.
The first contained vials of liquid with labels on the cartons, package codes and expiry dates. A second held packs of tablets. The producer’s name in both cases was Bulpharma. The instructions were printed in Bulgarian and badly translated into Russian on a cheap gummed sticker. Meaning? Kirov held a bottle up to the light and saw the other men through the glass: Bakradze, neat, young and bland; Antipov, tired and indifferent; and the enigmatic Viktor Gusev who reminded Kirov of a stranger met somewhere. He replaced the bottle and picked up another box. Inside was a collection of small denomination bills, mostly American dollars, a few Deutschmarks, some English banknotes and a wad of certificate roubles tied with a rubber band.
‘The wages of sin,’ Bakradze quipped in a friendly fashion.