I wondered how much the UFO story was likely to raise. The pictures had been a shrewd addition: they would probably double the price. I began to like the director. He didn’t care what people thought of him just so long as it brought in the money to improve the facilities for his cadets. At the same time I saw how the success of his UFO story depended on his never admitting the truth to anyone. The man wasn’t corrupt, he was a genius. He ought to have been put in charge of the entire militia budget. He could probably have dreamed up a way of doubling that too.

  In the new canteen nearly three hundred cadets were already seated at their refectory tables. Like their senior officers and the dinner-ladies they were awaiting the arrival of the black priest. With any Russian ceremony there is always a lot of waiting around. Grushko and I followed the director into the centre of the room and then suddenly, as if by magic, the priest and his acolyte were among us.

  The priest was a young man of about thirty who stood a head taller than anyone else in the canteen so that his sharp blue eyes seemed to be on everyone. He was bearded and, as was traditional, he wore his hair long and tied in a tail behind his head. He was clothed in a voluminous black cassock with wide mandarin sleeves, a long white silk-brocade tippet, and a large cross on a silver chain. Handsome, and younger than most of the priests I had ever seen, he was also a dead ringer for Rasputin. His acolyte was altogether less distinguished, being younger, fatter, clean-shaven and rather sleepy-looking, as if he had just rolled out of a warm, greasy bed.

  The director barked something at the cadets who, as one man, stood to attention. They were not entirely silent and I heard a few remarks and corresponding guffaws as the priest, taking it all in good part, addressed a short sermon to his strange flock.

  Especially by the standards of the Russian Orthodox Church, this was not a long sermon, lasting only three or four minutes; and the blessing, with sung responses from the nasal-sounding acolyte and which lasted perhaps six or seven minutes, was not a long blessing. But since the lunch of soup and sausage was already cooling on the tables, the priest’s little service seemed interminable.

  Finally, as if to make quite certain that the food was cold, the two of them walked solemnly round the whole canteen, liberally dousing cadets, tables, walls and food with lashings of holy water. A light murmur of discomfort turned louder with amusement and the director took advantage of the stir to find Georgi Rodionov and then usher the three of us into an annexe to the main canteen that was the officers’ dining-room. He sat us down at his own table and hospitably served us himself with three plates of soup. But he did not join us, claiming, not implausibly, that he was on a strict diet.

  ‘Quite a character,’ observed Grushko when the director had left us.

  ‘Isn’t he?’ said Rodionov, and sipped his soup noisily.

  ‘Is he serious? About the UFO thing?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Rodionov looked up from his bowl and shrugged philosophically. ‘These days we all of us have to do some pretty strange things in the way of making a living.’

  While Grushko asked his questions, I studied the Academy’s weapons-instructor. Rodionov was a strong-looking man with fair hair, blue eyes, a broad nose and thick sensual lips. But for the height of his cheekbones, he might have passed for a German or a Pole. It was a distinguished, dreamy sort of face, as might have better suited a poet rather than a policeman.

  ‘So tell me about it,’ said Grushko, and drank some soup.

  Rodionov scratched his nose self-consciously and looked from side to side. He was about to answer when Grushko interrupted him.

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward?“ he said quietly. ’You knew that we would want to speak to everyone who had any contact with Mikhail Milyukin in the time leading up to his death. So what’s your excuse, mister?‘

  Rodionov’s appetite was gone. He sat back on his chair and folded his arms defensively.

  ‘If it appeared on a report that I was moonlighting, then I could lose this job.’ He spoke sullenly, like a schoolboy who had been caught stealing fruit. ‘I’ve already lost any real prospect of getting on in the militia. I suppose you know I was invalided out of the OMON squad with no compensation?’

  ‘I know it,’ said Grushko.

  ‘I’ve got a wife and family, and I can’t afford to lose this job. I need the money. And any extra that I can earn.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Besides, it’s not as if there’s much to tell.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’

  ‘All right.’ Rodionov poured himself some apple juice from the jug on the table. Really it was little more than water with a few slices of apple core floating in it.

  ‘I head up a small syndicate of militiamen offering private security to people. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about. Mostly it’s shop owners, cooperative restaurants, and joint-ventures —people trying to make an honest living who find themselves coming up against the Mafia. Occasionally we get an individual client. Like Mikhail Milyukin.

  ‘He contacted me. Said that he’d been threatened by some people. At first I assumed he was talking about the Mafia, but it later transpired that it was some people in the Department who had him really spooked. He didn’t say what they wanted from him, just that they were trying to intimidate him. Apparently there was some Mafioso, a pimp whom Milyukin had helped to send to the zone, and these KGB people had told him that they were going to see to it that this fellow obtained an early release. Milyukin was worried that if he did get out, then he might come looking for him.

  ‘Well, I went to his apartment and we talked. I worked out a plan and a price for him but he said that it was too much. He offered me fifty roubles in cash, on account —and I turned it down.’ Rodionov shrugged. ‘Simple as that, sir.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A couple of days before he was shot.’

  ‘Morning or afternoon?’

  Rodionov thought for a moment. ‘Morning. Between nine and ten o’clock.’

  ‘It must have been just before the burglary,’ I said.

  Rodionov looked surprised.

  ‘Burglary? The papers didn’t mention any burglary.’ His surprise turned into a frown. ‘Come to think of it though, there was something…’

  ‘Let’s have it,’ said Grushko.

  ‘It was when I was on my way out of the building where Milyukin lived. I saw this face. Fellow with a long record for petty thieving. Mainly a pickpocket, but he’s done a bit of burglary in his time. Name of Pyotr Mogilnikov. Anyway, he was talking to these two characters in a car parked right outside. But I didn’t think anything about it at the time. I mean, Milyukin was worried about being killed, not ripped off.’

  ‘Can you describe the two men in the car?’

  ‘I didn’t get much more than a glance at them sir. But they were dark and one of them was smoking American cigarettes. I remember him throwing the pack out of the car.’

  ‘Brand?’

  Rodionov shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘What make of car was it?’

  ‘Er… an old Zim. Black. Red upholstery. A nice clean car.’ He stubbed his cigarette out with some ferocity. ‘You know sir, for what it’s worth, I’m not very proud of myself —considering what happened to Mr Milyukin. I mean, he was a nice fellow. But fifty roubles, it just wasn’t enough, for a syndicate.’

  Grushko nodded sombrely. He wiped his soup bowl with a piece of black bread which he then ate.

  ‘Then we’ll say no more about it, this time,’ he said and, because I had also finished eating, he stood up from the table. At the same moment one of the dinner-ladies arrived bearing three plates of steaming sausage.

  Thank you for the soup,‘ said Grushko, ’but we have to get back now.‘

  ‘Here, what about your sausage?’ said Rodionov. ‘You eat it,’ said Grushko. ‘With two jobs, you probably need it.’

  15

  When we returned to the Big House we found the corridor outside Grushko’s office busy with OMON squad militia and the Georgians they had arrested in the gym at the Pribaltskaya. We saw Sasha still wearing one of the new flak jackets that had just been supplied to the Criminal Services Department, and Grushko waved him towards us.

  ‘Any trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘One of them gave us the slip, sir,’ admitted Sasha. ‘But we’ll pick him up.’

  ‘See that you do.’

  We watched the gang being led into the interrogation-room. They were attracting quite a bit of attention with their dark good-looks, their smart clothes and their macho swagger. Georgians always do. Seeing Dzhumber Gankrelidze, Grushko added, ‘I’ll want a word with that one. He’s got some explaining to do.’

  Sasha nodded.

  ‘Is Nikolai Vladimirovich back yet?’ asked Grushko.

  ‘In the office. He’s got Lieutenant Khodyrev with him. And some kid.’

  We retreated down the corridor. The door to the detectives’ room was open. Catching sight of Grushko, Andrei, still pursuing his telephone inquiry, stood up nervously, as if expecting to be yelled at once again.

  ‘Still nothing to report, sir,’ he said awkwardly.

  Grushko grunted, his interest apparently reserved for the youth sitting in front of Nikolai and Khodyrev, his left hand manacled to a statue of Lenin. He wore a black leather jacket with a painting of the Buddha on the back, and several earrings. His hair was fashionably quiffed and he looked as if he had been crying. He was reading through the statement he had given to Nikolai.

  ‘If you’re happy with what’s written there, then sign it,’ said Nikolai, and handed him a pen.

  The youth nodded and then sniffed unhappily. He took the pen, wet the end on his yellowish tongue, laid the statement on the desk and signed it carefully. Nikolai collected the statement, inspected it to see if Mickey Mouse had given him his autograph and, seeing Grushko, stood up and came towards us.

  ‘Is this the kid who washed Milyukin’s Golden Calf?’

  That’s right sir. His name is Valentin Bogomolov. He’s a rope-swallower.‘

  Grushko frowned. Before he had joined Grushko’s team, Nikolai had spent several years with the drugs squad. His knowledge of drug-users’ slang was second to none.

  ‘I mean, he smokes a bit of hash.’

  ‘Thank you,’ growled Grushko.

  ‘He lives with his mum and dad in the flat upstairs from Milyukin.’

  ‘So what’s his story?’

  Nikolai handed Grushko Bogomolov’s statement. The older man glanced over it and then nodded.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better hear this for myself,’ he said and perching himself on the corner of Nikolai’s desk, picked up the Golden Calf, nodded at Khodyrev and then faced the youth sternly.

  Nikolai took out his cigarettes and shoved one in Bogomolov’s mouth as if he had been feeding a baby.

  This is Colonel Grushko,‘ he explained, and lit the cigarette. ’I want you to tell him what you’ve been telling us. Let’s start from where you first saw these men outside Milyukin’s door.‘

  Bogomolov took an unsteady chestful of smoke and nodded meekly.

  ‘Well, I was on my way downstairs when I saw them,’ he said tremulously. These three men. At first I thought they might be plainclothes militiamen or something. I mean, they didn’t look like thieves, but I knew they didn’t live in that flat. Plus the fact that they had keys. Two of them let themselves in the door while the third one stayed outside. He looked like he was keeping watch, and I guess then I knew they were up to something. Actually, he seemed less well-dressed than the other two who went in, and more like a thief, if you know what I mean.‘

  He sighed profoundly and placed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. With the leather jacket he looked quite like James Dean. But if there had been any cool bravado, it was long gone.

  ‘Go on,’ said Grushko.

  ‘I was watching to see what happened. You see, it was quite dark on the stairs, so they didn’t know I was watching them. Anyway, I suppose they were in there for ten or fifteen minutes, and when they came out again they had a few papers as well as some stuff in a carrier bag…’

  ‘What stuff?’ said Grushko.

  ‘I don’t know. Probably more papers. One of them said something funny —something about “going back to the seagull”.’

  The seagull?‘ Grushko looked at Nikolai. ’Fans of Chekhov, were they?‘

  ‘I’m sure that was it,’ said Bogomolov. ‘Even though it didn’t make any sense to me.’

  ‘ “Seagull” is army slang for a car, sir,’ explained Nikolai.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ murmured Grushko. ‘But it’s also one of those old copies of American cars that Zim or Zil used to turn out. A Seagull was a Buick copy, I think. We’d better check it out.’ Grushko glanced down at Bogomolov and frowned.

  ‘Well? What happened next?’

  ‘They cleared off, leaving the front door open. Well, that was my chance. I thought I’d just duck in and see if there was anything valuable lying around. There was some money on the table —about fifty roubles —and that golden cow thing. I had that and the money and ran out.’

  He clutched at Grushko’s sleeve with a hand that was covered with eczema. Grushko’s nose wrinkled with distaste.

  That’s the honest truth, sir, I swear. I was going to sell the cow to buy some wheels, but I don’t know anything about a murder, sir. Please, sir, please tell her that, will you?‘ He nodded fearfully at Lieutenant Khodyrev. ’She’s been saying all kinds of things, but they’re not true, sir.‘

  Grushlco nodded and detached the youth’s scrofulous hand from his sleeve. He pushed himself off the desk and walked through the doorway where I was standing. Nikolai followed.

  ‘Think he’s telling the truth?’ said Grushko.

  ‘After the stick Olga waved at him, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Olga?’ Grushko smiled.

  ‘Lieutenant Khodyrev. She’s a first-class cop, sir. Threatened the kid with the whole bunch of flowers. Murder, theft of state property —’

  ‘What state property is that?’ I asked.

  ‘The Golden Calf,’ said Nikolai. ‘It is an important literary award. You see, at first he claimed he’d just found it lying on the road, but Lieutenant Khodyrev, she…’

  ‘We get the picture, Nikolai,’ said Grushko. ‘You don’t have to give her the Order of Lenin.’ He looked back into the room.

  ‘Keep him here for a minute,’ he said, and then went back into his own office. He picked up the phone and asked the Big House operator to put him through to the Criminal Records Department.

  ‘Is this one of the men you saw?’

  Bogomolov stared at the photograph Grushko had removed from the file and placed in front of him.

  ‘It was dark,’ he said, ‘but I think he was the one who had the keys: the one who stayed outside and kept a lookout for the other two.’

  ‘The one who looked like a thief, you said.’

  Bogomolov nodded and Grushko smiled.

  ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Now then, how do you feel about seeing if you can identify these two other men you saw? I’m talking about an identity parade.’

  Bogomolov shrugged. ‘S’fine by me,’ he said. ‘But look, what’s going to happen to me when all this is over?’

  Grushko looked over at Lieutenant Khodyrev.

  ‘Have the papers gone to an investigator yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ she said, ‘not yet.’

  ‘Then what do you think?’

  ‘You mean if he’s helping us with our inquiry, sir? Under the circumstances, I should be inclined not to press charges.’

  ‘You hear that?’ Grushko said to Bogomolov. ‘You can go home after you’ve had a look at these men. But take a good look at them, mind. And don’t say it’s them just because you want to be helpful. Understand?’

  Bogomolov nodded.

  We returned to Grushko’s office.

  ‘We’ll see if he recognises any of our handsome Georgian friends,’ explained Grushko.

  ‘Want me to organise the protocol?’ I offered.

  ‘Please.’

  Nikolai took a look at the man in the photograph whom Bogomolov had positively identified.

  ‘Who’s the face, sir?’

  ‘Fellow called Pyotr Mogilnikov,’ said Grushko. ‘A pickpocket. Georgi Rodionov saw him hanging around outside Milyukin’s apartment building on the day of the burglary. He was with two men in a black Volga. My guess is that these two characters paid him to lift Milyukin’s keys from his pocket. Probably bumped into him on the street or something like that. And while he was out they simply let themselves in through the front door.’ He glanced over Bogomolov’s statement once more.

  ‘I reckon one of these characters was our careful Winston smoker,’ suggested Nikolai. ‘You know, the one who takes his chalks from the wrong end of the packet.’

  ‘Rodionov did say that one of the two men in the Volga was smoking American cigarettes,’ I said.

  Grushko’s forefinger tapped the photograph in Nikolai’s hand.

  ‘Then you’d better get that circulated,’ he said. ‘I don’t want this zek going the same way as Sultan Khadziyev. We have to burn him out, and soon.’ He smacked his fist into his palm. ‘Right then. Let’s sort these Dzhugashvilis.’

  Georgian men enjoy a not undeserved reputation with women, being hot-blooded, passionate characters and having a cynical eye for the main chance. Any joke or story involving sexual excess usually has a Georgian as its hero. There are two other things that most people know about Georgia, One is that the region produces an excellent cognac. The other is that it was the birthplace of Josef Stalin. Only then he called himself Josef Dzhugashvili. It used to be people also knew Georgia to be a nice place to go for a holiday. But since the collapse of the Soviet Union it is only the mercenaries who are much inclined to go there.

  Once, many years ago, when I was a small boy, my parents took me to Georgia for a holiday by the Black Sea. I remember how hot it had been and the kindness of the people with whom we had stayed. Now, as I looked at the truculent faces of the men who had been brought to the Big House, it seemed almost impossible to associate them with the warm and distant land that I remembered from my childhood; and all too easy to associate them with the violent struggle for power in Georgia that followed the end of Communism. But for all their black looks and weary yawns, the Georgian Mafiosi conducted themselves with dignity; and treating Grushko’s men with courtesy they found that their courtesy was returned.

 

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