Kirov thought that perhaps he would. Bakradze had brought the press along for the arrest of Viktor Gusev, if that wasn’t incredible enough.
Radek had asked about Kirov’s case.
‘No progress, eh? The Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring — whoops — pardon — too much beer. Why —’ he asked affectionately, ‘why Jewish? Where is it getting you except for pulling a few small dealers in?’
Kirov suggested they finish their drinks, but Radek wasn’t finished. He had a flash of inspiration. ‘Perhaps the small dealers are all that there is to it. Here and there, all over the place. Little guys pocketing a few tablets and selling them. Perhaps — have you ever thought that the Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring doesn’t exist? Maybe it’s just something we invented.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Yes? Oh? OK. Let me pay.’ Radek reached for his wallet, and knocked over another beer spilling it over his clothes. ‘Shit!’ He stood up and Kirov noted a change that had come over him since the Brezhnev days when Radek kept his head down and looked as grey as the walls. He was wearing his coat slung over his shoulders like a film star.
Radek came out of Grishin’s office and spotted Kirov in the corridor. ‘How goes it, Petya?’ he said cheerfully. Behind him the door to the outer office was open and Grishin’s secretary was watching them meditatively. ‘How are you getting on with your drugs case?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Kirov watched his back disappear down the corridor, then Grishin’s secretary was inviting him in.
Grishin had finished refurbishing his office. The rest of his possessions had come out to join the Ricard water jug. On the desk a Gauloise ashtray, another with the Shell logo on it, and a set of Sheraton hotel pens. Grishin was sitting behind his souvenirs, wearing his Rumpelstiltskin look, outwardly cheerful but with a hint of malice. As a small man he had probably decided years before that he had to unsettle people in other ways than by physical presence. On the surface he was always and everywhere all affability. As sincere as an adult telling stories to children.
‘You wanted to see me, Rodion Mikhailovitch?’
‘Did I? Oh, it was nothing important.’ Grishin was fussing distractedly with the desktop ornaments. ‘I thought a status report on your antibiotics affair might be in order.’ He looked up. ‘Perhaps I can help?’
So Kirov gave him the account of Viktor Gusev’s arrest. Grishin listened and had his secretary bring tea. Meanwhile he lounged in his chair, his face full of warm concern. Like my father, Kirov thought, for no other reason than a half-forgotten dream. He put the idea away: he had no idea how his father would have looked.
‘What are you trying to suggest?’ Grishin asked. ‘Some form of collusion with this Gusev? Who is involved? MVD, the Public Prosecutor’s Office, or both?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ Grishin repeated, not unsympathetically. He gave the matter some thought. ‘Bakradze was making a public show?’
‘Yes.’ Kirov agreed though he knew what was coming next.
‘Then he must have been serious about Gusev’s arrest — you follow me, it doesn’t sound like much of a deal for Gusev.’
‘He could have arrested Gusev for show and released him later.’
‘Not after getting authority to publicise the arrest. Men who are publicly arrested don’t get released.’
‘Gusev was in no position to know about the publicity.’
‘Gusev was shot,’ Grishin reminded him. And again: ‘It doesn’t sound like much of a deal.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Kirov admitted. He felt the mystery and the explanation slipping away.
‘Where is he now?’ Grishin asked.
‘In the prison hospital at the Butyrka. The wound isn’t too serious. He’s in police custody but I have men baby-sitting him.’
‘Do you?’ Grishin replied gnomically.
Kirov waited for some request or instruction, then said, ‘Bakradze has a strong case against Gusev: there were antibiotics all over the apartment. We could withdraw our interest and leave Petrovka to get on with the prosecution and conviction. Is that what you want?’
Grishin looked up. ‘No.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You make it sound as if there is something personal in the matter.’ After the slight flicker of concern, Grishin withdrew into piety. ‘The shortage of medicinal drugs is a matter of public interest. It’s our job to make sure that the Anti-Corruption Squad investigates these cases properly. In this particular instance I should ask you: are there really grounds for suspicion?’ He reverted to sympathy. ‘Perhaps I should also ask what you are looking for. Glamour? Do you want to take over the Ukrainian meat case? Turn over a few meat distributors — after all everyone knows that there isn’t one that isn’t shot through with corruption. It’s a popular cause and you could hardly fail — why do you think I gave it to Radek? It’s just about his level.’ When Kirov didn’t reply, Grishin let his eyes fall on the photograph of his family and changing the subject he said, ‘You look tired, Pyotr Andreevitch. Why don’t you relax this weekend, come to my dacha, meet my spouse and my parent. You can bring your girlfriend, Larissa Arkadyevna.’
‘Thanks. I’ll think about it.’ He didn’t mention that Lara had cleared out of his apartment. It wasn’t important. Women came and went and he didn’t own them. ‘I may have other things to do. One of my relatives is ill. I may have…’ For the first time the idea of Uncle Kolya dying seemed sharp and credible.
‘Anyone I know? Someone in the service?’
‘General Nikolai Konstantinovitch Prylubin. Do you know him?’
‘A fine man,’ Grishin answered solemnly.
Kirov returned to his office. He remembered the black velvet bag he had recovered from Viktor Gusev and took it out of his pocket. On re-examination it appeared insignificant, a scrap of cloth. He summoned Tumanov and told him to put the bag through analysis. Tumanov was a jaunty youngster. He asked sceptically what the lab was supposed to go looking for. Anything. Anything? All right, whatever you say.
Next Bogdanov called from the Butyrka to report on the prisoner’s condition. ‘They’ve removed the bullet and he’s OK.’
Kirov asked whether blood tests had been done to discover what it was that Gusev had swallowed.
‘Yes. But they came up negative. It wasn’t a drug. And there’s no point in asking Gusev. He just lies in bed and smiles,’ Bogdanov said sourly. Then: ‘Let him smile. I’m waiting here with a bed pan, and when he shits then we’ll know.’
He drove out to Babushkino and turned up on the doorstep of Uncle Kolya’s dacha in time to meet the doctor leaving. She was a small, pretty woman with a serious face that perked up in a smile when anyone spoke to her.
‘How is he?’ Kirov asked. He caught a glimpse of the fat housekeeper, Tatiana Yurievna, peering through the window to see who the visitor was.
‘General Prylubin is an old man,’ the doctor said. ‘He drinks too much and smokes too much and he doesn’t take advice. His chest is bad and I don’t think he could survive a case of pneumonia. I’d like to take him into hospital, but he won’t agree.’ She looked sad, and Kirov suspected she was fond of the old man. As who wouldn’t be?