Dead Meat

No,' said Galina.

When was the last time you saw him?'

Last night.' She shrugged. Around seven. Just before I went out.'

Where did you go?' said Sasha.

Out. To meet a friend.' She swallowed some more of her drink and grimaced. I don't know why I'm drinking this. I don't even like vodka.' She put the glass down. There was a phone call from some guy he knew. Don't ask me his name because he didn't say. Whoever it was said he'd washed this fancy watch off some Jap tourist's arm and did Vaja want to buy it?'

And did he?'

Are you kidding? These Georgians are like magpies. They love the flashy stuff. Gold, diamonds, silver can't wear enough of it. Worse than Jews, so they are. Anyway, he arranged a meet.'

Did he say when, or where?'

Galina shook her head.

Sounds to me like he was this city's first fashion victim,' said Nikolai.

Galina grinned mockingly. Yeah, well, I can't ever see you making best-dressed detective of the year, Fatso. Vaja was a smart-looking guy.'

Not when I last saw him,' said Nikolai.

Did you ever hear him mention the name of Mikhail Milyukin at all?' Sasha asked quickly.

The journalist? The one that writes for Krokodifi Where does he fit in?'

He's not writing Vaja's obituary,' said Nikolai. He and Vaja caught the same flight north.'

Yeah? You don't say. That's too bad. I liked his stuff.'

How about Vaja?' said Sasha. Was he a fan?'

She gave him a look of pity.

Vaja? He was a nice guy, but he was no reader. Take a look around. The only magazines he liked were the ones for the home gynaecologist.'

And the rest of Rustaveli Avenue?' said Nikolai, referring to the main street in Tblisi, the capital of Georgia. Where can we find them?'

Usually you'll find the whole raspberry round the corner,' said Galina, jerking her head at the window. At the Pribaltskaya Hotel. In the afternoon they like to make muscles of themselves in the gym. And in the evening they get mumbling drunk in the restaurant.'

Nikolai stood up. That thief,' he said, the one that stole the watch. If you do remember the guy's name '

Sure,' said Galina, standing up beside him. She came halfway up his chest. I'll send you a carrier-pigeon.'

She followed them to the door and opened it.

Hey, promise me you'll catch the bastards who did it and I'll give you some really useful information.'

We'll catch them all right,' declared Sasha.

Do you promise?'

Promise.'

Take the stairs. And with that she kicked the door shut in their faces.

General Kornilov's office was through a double door at the end of the corridor. Although bigger than Grushko's office it was also gloomier, with only a small desk lamp to lighten the almost sepulchral darkness.

A smart fountain-pen in his bony hand, Kornilov sat behind a big leather-topped desk. Another desk had been set at right angles to Kornilov's, making a T shape, and it was here we seated ourselves while the general finished writing the memo in his best copperplate.

In his late fifties, Kornilov was a stern-looking figure with cold, fossilised eyes and a hard, expressionless face like some long-lost funerary mask of beaten bronze. Looking at him it was hard to believe Grushko's assertion that the general had been a committed democrat long before the overthrow of the Party. Kornilov seemed to have been pressed from the same mould that Stalin had used to manufacture murderers like Yezhov, Yagoda and Laventri Beria. Perhaps it was just because I had known him a little while longer, but while he introduced me, Grushko became an altogether warmer, more human figure than his gnomic boss. The general nodded sombrely and shook my hand.

Glad to have you aboard,' he said with a voice that matched his office. It's a pretty good team you'll be working with. And you can bet you'll be busy. Right now there are over two hundred armed Mafia gangs operating in this city. Organised crime constitutes the biggest single threat to this country's democratic future.'

It sounded like something he had been rehearsing for the television cameras, only there was no complementary smile such as might have pleased some public relations man. Kornilov blinked slowly and lit a hand-rolled cigarette.

Yevgeni,' he said, at this moment, about how many cases are you investigating?'

About thirty, sir.'

I'm not suggesting for a moment that you drop any of them. But you'd better make solving Milyukin's murder your number-one priority. He had a lot of friends in the Western press and naturally his death will be reported there. It would look good if we could clear this matter up as quickly as possible.'

Yes, sir.' Grushko fumbled a cigarette out of his own pocket.

I've been speaking to Georgi Zverkov,' said Kornilov.

That vulture,' muttered Grushko.

Nevertheless, quite a useful one when it results in us receiving some information from the public. I want you to go on his television show and talk about Milyukin's murder. Appeal for information. I'm sure you know the drill. Just don't let him make a quilt with you.'

Grushko nodded uncomfortably.

So what do we know about this Georgian?'

He was from Svaneti,' said Grushko. It's a mountainous part of Georgia and the people there are pretty primitive. But tough too. Vaja's hometown, Ushghooli, means heart without feara__. I rang the head of Criminal Service in Tblisi but you know what they're like, sir. They're not much inclined to be helpful these days, so it's hard to say what Vaja got up to when he stayed at home.'

Georgians,' Kornilov shook his head and muttered a curse. Too busy killing each other, I suppose.'

Looks like it, sir,' said Grushko. Here Vaja had a number of convictions for theft and assault. Small stuff, really, and all of it quite a few years ago. We knew he was one of the Georgian team leaders but we were never able to sew a case on him. I've spoken to my usual informers but there's not much that's coming down about this one.' He lit the cigarette and left it hanging on his lip. I dunno. Maybe his Mafia pals thought he was planning to sell Milyukin a story.'

Kornilov's brow wrinkled as he considered Grushko's suggestion.

That's what someone wants us to think anyway,' added Grushko. Or else why the dental work? It could be that this was just some bad blood and that Milyukin was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Stranger things have happened, sir.'

All right, Yevgeni,' said Kornilov. But just suppose for one minute that it wasn't the Georgians. Who would you want to consider?'

Grushko's speculation began with a shrug. The Abkhazians maybe. Not that they're very well-organised at the moment, not since we cracked that taxi-driver racket. Then there's the Chechens. Nobody hates the Georgians more than their Muslim neighbours. This could be the start of another Mafia war.'

Let's hope not. But assuming that the Chechens wouldn't need much of a reason to kill a Georgian, what could they have against Mikhail Milyukin?'

Grushko opened the file he had brought with him and took out some papers and a photograph.

I had a look through my files for people who might have a grudge against Milyukin, and oddly enough this character here's a Chechen.' He handed Kornilov the picture.

His name is Sultan Khadziyev. About five years ago, before the Organised Crime Unit even existed, Sultan was controlling most of the prostitution north of the River Neva. Representing himself as a puppeteer how about that? he obtained permission to go to Hungary with five female assistants. Only they were hard-currency prostitutes who thought their pimp was taking them for a well-earned holiday. When they arrived in Budapest, Sultan got himself a flat and put the girls to work.

But the profits weren't as good as he had hoped for and so after a couple of months Sultan sold the girls and the flat to the Hungarian Mafia and came home. Well, I don't know what kind of girls they were, but the Hungarians couldn't make a go of them either and so they took the girls to Bucharest and sold them to the Romanian Mafia.