“Let me go on,” said Tolya.
“Yes.”
“I tried to believe Litvinenko only had bad luck, bad karma. I wanted to believe in London, in British justice, in a civil society. I was happy here,” he said softly. “And the theater. I was raised with this idea of great theater by my parents, Artyom, and they loved this language, this English, as beautiful as Russian and bigger, a big language, flexible, opulent, dirty, poetic. What writers! What actors! I consider language reveals the soul of a place, that it is the soul. I was entranced. I even become big-time member of these great theaters, I become Olivier Circle Member of Royal National, imagine, and I go and I meet actors and I see everything,” he added as if in a daze. “What the fuck am I talking about?” Tolya sat up. He put his cigarette in the ashtray, rubbed his face. “I thought I’d stay here for good.” He raised his shoulders, a kind of shrug of despair.
“You know when it first hit me?” Tolya went on. “That there was no place safe, no place good for me?”
“When?”
“I discovered that the guy who killed Litvinenko was on British Airways flights between Moscow and London. That same month, he took many flights. He left a radioactive trail. People were tested, the planes were cleaned up, they said. They said it was clean. I didn’t believe it. Artemy?”
“Go on.”
“I was on two of those flights, and Valentina was with me.”
Did Tolya think he had been poisoned? That Val got a dose of polonium on those flights between Moscow and London? It was nearly two years back. And I thought that, knowing she was dead, he had lost his mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
For a few more minutes, we rode in silence.
“Talk to me,” I said, while Ivan manoeuvered over country lanes and I saw a sign for the airport. “If I’m staying in London, tell me who, who doesn’t like you, who did you do bad business with, who do you owe? If you think somebody killed Val to get at you, I have to know.” I put out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray and waited.
“So many,” said Tolya. “I was trying to tell you, there was the polonium on the planes, there were people who wanted me on those planes, and still I didn’t believe it. You think I’m crazy? So I’m crazy. But people said Sasha Litvinenko was crazy.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yes, but other things. Little things I ignore, I say, no big deal, and then you arrive and tell me they killed Valentina,” he said. “Now I believe it. All of it.” Tears filled his eyes and ran down his big cheeks. Tolya made no noise, but his face was wet. “Now, just like that, this morning, like I wake up from a dream, I see it. London is only like a Potemkin Village, a façade, the more beautiful it is, the more corrupt, the more great art inside mansions, the more brutal the people. It has a rotten heart of money.” He stopped, winded. I put out my hand to touch his sleeve. Gently, he pushed it away.
“You’re saying they hurt Val because of London?”
“They can reach out any place. Not hurt, Artemy, we do not need these euphemisms. They killed her. Murdered her. Slaughtered my girl. I never talk to you about business. You don’t question me. We’re like goluboy in the military, you and me: don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“I don’t like to upset this balance,” he said.
“What balance?”
“I know you keep a balance between friendship for me and not being involved with all my shit, so you can be proper policeman, and I honor this in you, Artemy, this moral code.” He pulled another fresh cigarette from the pack, lit up with a throwaway orange Bic.
“That’s what Val said.”
“What did she say?”
“Something about a moral code.”
“You and Valentina were close?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m asking you a question,” he said.
“Sure, she said I was her Uncle Artie.” I looked straight ahead. I asked him for another cigarette. He passed me the pack and the Bic lighter. I lit up, I drew in the smoke, and blew it out hard, as if it would make a screen between us.
“Where’s your gold lighter?” I said.
“I left all my things, jewelry, everything in the apartment. You take what you need, what you want. You see? You understand?”
He didn’t want anything on him that would identify him, not his wallet or lighter or his fancy shoes. It didn’t make sense because people everywhere knew Tolya, but it made sense to him now. He figured if somebody killed him, he didn’t want them taking trophies.
“Artie?” He put his hand on my arm. Tolya almost never used my American name. I didn’t know why he used it now. “Tell me,” he said, and for a second I thought he meant Val, I thought he meant about Val and me, and I didn’t know what to say.
“This girl, Masha Panchuk, I saw her picture on TV,” said Tolya. “I should have said something. I recognized her only afterwards, the next night, I was already in bed, and I thought, should I call Artie, and then I fell asleep. So what, I said to myself. So she worked for me only two days last winter. I didn’t want trouble.”
“It wouldn’t have changed things.”
“Guys like me can always change things,” he said. “I could have helped her. I could have called you when she was dead and said I knew this girl. Maybe it would have made a difference for Valentina.” He closed his eyes. “I always worried about her. Not just for silly stuff, like she stays out late, but more deeply, you understand?”
“Can you tell me about it?” I said.
“For Val’s sister, I never worry. Her sister is in medical school, she will be a great doctor. Val is different. She wants to save the world, I want to help her, I build a nice legitimate business for her, I pay tax, I join community groups, I pay much more than minimum wage, I do not ever hire illegals in the kitchen, which is perhaps the only place serving food in New York City which has not one illegal, not because I approve of the American stupid obsession with foreigners, but because I want everything perfect for Val.” He leaned back. “For first time everything is nice and in order, I am in New York, I have one little club, my Pravda2, I try to be content, and then I see how much money I can make in London.”
“Money?”
He smiled bitterly. “Yes. Money. You’re so naïve, Artyom. British government makes this tax haven for people like me, for rich Russians. London is like an offshore island.”
“You said that. What shore?”
“European shore, American shore, shore of paradise, who cares? For Russians, like a, what do you say, day at the beach.”
“No rules.”
“No rules. And for Russians this is the godsend,” he said. “Maybe already five, ten years, some even more, so I come in very late, but there is always more. They can hide money, they can spend, they can invest in real estate, shares, anything, all this money they make from buying whole pieces of the earth. These are people who buy and sell oil, nickel, aluminum, sugar, oil, gas, diamonds, everything, the earth itself, people who use sugar and soy and turn it into money, who make fortunes on orange juice, who manipulate whole countries. Russians floating on oil, all the money in the world.” Tolya paused. “While it lasts.”
“Go on.”
“It’s not your fault. You think you failed me, you didn’t watch over Valentina, but it was me. I wanted too much. I got so greedy. My God, what did I do?”
“No, Tolya. It wasn’t you. It was some bastard who killed her, not you.”
“It was me,” said Tolya. “Such a simple beginning, you know? People say, why not brand your club, why not do this style of luxury in London, Moscow, Dubai, Tokyo? It seemed like a good game, so much fun.”