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  6

  No way, Niko. Not a chance,” Vera replies when I bring up the subject of Vorontsov’s documents.

  We’re in McDonald’s on Pushkin Square, having lunch with Yuri. It’s an extremely large space with vast expanses of glass and brightly colored plastic, a short walk from Militia Headquarters and the Interior Ministry. The concept of queuing at a window to place your order is perfectly suited to Muscovites, who are accustomed to waiting in line for everything. But after a lifetime of eating boiled potatoes and beef, the richness of french fries and cheeseburgers takes some getting used to, especially, I imagine, for residents of the apartment building directly above. Despite the culture gap, a hoard of middle-class locals are gorging themselves on fast food—inexpensive fast food—that most of them can’t afford. For the three of us, the noise level is more than worth the price of admission.

  “Come on, Vera,” I protest. “You’re in thirty-eight Petrovka every day. I’ve got to get my hands on those documents. You could at least try.”

  Her lips tighten into a defiant line.

  “Vera.”

  “I get caught this time, it’ll cost me more than a couple of days’ pay and a night in the drunk tank.”

  “Something I don’t understand. . . .” Yuri says. He pauses, savoring a spoonful of chocolate ice cream as he puzzles it out. Along with sharing my passion for political reform, he’s as addicted to ice cream as I am to vodka; and his search for the perfect flavor and texture has taken him to every kafé morozhenoye in Moscow. “If Vorontsov was killed to cover up a scandal, why take his medals?”

  “For openers, to make it look like a robbery so the militia will bark up all the wrong trees. Which is exactly what I think Shevchenko’s doing.”

  “Possible. And?”

  “Their value. How much do you think a professional would get to take Vorontsov out?”

  “I don’t know,” Yuri muses, contemplating the dollop on his spoon. “Five hundred, maybe a thousand rubles.”

  “If he’s lucky. But in this case the shooter gets even luckier. He whacks Vorontsov, then spots the medals. Suddenly, he’s looking at two, maybe three hundred thousand. Not a bad bonus.”

  “Not a bad theory, either,” Vera concedes. “Anything else?”

  “No, just that and the documents,” I reply, with a forlorn expression to make her feel guilty.

  “Don’t do that to me, Nikolai. I’m warning you, it’s not going to work.”

  “I’m crushed.” I clutch my chest as if shot in the heart, then shift targets. “What about you, Yuri?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Shevchenko’s returning the documents to the IM. You should be able to get your hands on them.”

  “Impossible.”

  “You never had trouble before.”

  “That’s because I could always bribe someone with a copy of Playboy or Dr. Zhivago. But now, now you can buy them on the Arbat.” Yuri’s brows arch in amazement that such things are for sale minutes from the Kremlin on a thoroughfare that has been closed and turned into a pedestrian mall. Lined with shops and cafés, where artists, musicians, hustlers, and restless teenagers hang out, it extends more than a mile from Arbat Square to the Foreign Ministry. “It’s out of the question.”

  “Maybe I’m missing something here, but when you were an outcast, you could; now that you’re an insider, you can’t?”

  “Nikolai,” he groans, implying I should know better. “Despite all the restructuring, the IM is still highly compartmentalized; access to documents is as restricted as ever. Besides, I don’t have to tell you, I’m a theoretician, not a salesman. Privatization deals aren’t my area.”

  “Nothing like having friends come to your rescue.”

  Yuri methodically scoops the last bit of ice cream from his cup, then seems to have a change of heart. “All right. I’ll look into it, but don’t hold your breath. Frankly, the way hard-liners are hanging on, I’d forget the whole thing if I were you.”

  “No,” Vera pipes up. “No, I think he should forget the documents—and focus on the medals.”

  “The medals? Why?”

  “Well, if you can find them, there’s a good chance you’ll eventually find the killer. And he’s going to turn out to be either a thief or a hired assassin.”

  “That would settle it one way or the other.”

  “And if he is a hired gun, once he’s cornered, maybe he can be convinced to identify who paid him.”

  “Maybe. But I’m a writer, Vera, not a militia interrogator. Remember?”

  “If I wanted to be sleeping with a cop,” she says, smiling at a thought, “I’d have little trouble finding one.”

  “Nobody’s stopping you.”

  Vera stiffens, stung by the remark. “That was uncalled for,” she protests with an angry flip of her hair. “I was just kidding.”

  I reach across the table for her hand, but she pulls it away. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very good about myself lately.”

  She sighs and raises a brow at Yuri, who nods knowingly. I “Do we have to listen to this?”

  “Come on, remember how I used to say a dissident is a citizen who has the guts to say what everyone else is thinking. And you used to say—”

  “Who has the stupidity,” Yuri interrupts, beating me to it. “Yeah, I remember. It was a joke.”

  “I know, but sometimes I think you were right.”

  “You’re infuriating, you know?” Vera challenges. “The Communists are out, democracy is in, you finally have a free society, and you’re still not satisfied.”

  “It’s not how I thought it would be.”

  “Give the country a chance, Nikolai. These things take time.”

  “No, I meant for me. It’s different.”

  “In what way?” Yuri prods gently.

  “Every way.”

  “Every way?”

  “Writing. Okay? My style is stilted. I have to fight for every angle, every sale. I mean, making the apparatchiks squirm used to be fun, but it’s become a chore. I never used to think about making money, and I always seemed to have enough. Now, it’s all I think about, and I’m always broke.”

  “Well, speaking of a job,” Vera intones a little too self-righteously, “maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself and get one.”

  “You mean on a newspaper?”

  “Don’t look so insulted. It’s a perfectly respectable way to earn a living. I bet Sergei would hire you in a minute.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I’d have to revamp my syntax and get a face-lift first. Besides, after being on my own all these years, the mere thought of writing on assignment . . .” I splay my hands and let it tail off to emphasize my distaste for the idea. “Of course, I could do a free-lance piece on the black market in medals. It’d—”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Vera interrupts facetiously.

  “Where would you take it?” Yuri prompts.

  “Independent Gazette. They’d buy it in a minute.”

  “So would the wire services,” Vera encourages. “They love all that Moscow subculture stuff.”

  “And I suppose you just happen to know where the black-market medal dealers hang out?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Well, since you’ve been so adept at keeping me in coffee, I thought maybe on one of your excursions into the Moscow netherworld you came across . . .”

  “No such luck.”

  “What about that athlete?” Yuri prompts.

  “What athlete?”

  “That one you wrote about. Arkady—Arkady something, wasn’t it?”

  “Arkady Barkhin?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it. Barkhin. He might have a line on it.”

  “He might, but I haven’t seen him in years. Besides, he’s probably dead.”

  It wouldn’t be from old age if he were. Arkady Barkhin was a promising decathlete before a knee injury ended his career. He’d be in his mid-thirties now. I met him years ago while writing a
n article that exposed the government’s practice of discarding athletes who are injured or past their prime. The famous ones find jobs as trainers and coaches, but the rest—selected in childhood by Goskomsport to stock local, national,and Olympic teams—are unskilled, uneducated, and unemployable.

  Women marry, gain weight, and have children. Men peddle I their brawn and physical skills to the mafiya, working as enforcers and loan collectors in the rackets that have spread like the plague to every Russian city and suburb. Their days are spent in gyms coaxing atrophying muscles to life, nights hanging out in restaurants and cafés from which protection money is extorted. These aren’t proud old-timers, but a thirty-something group of embittered jocks who earn a living as crooks and killers.

  When I last saw him, Arkady Barkhin was well on his way to becoming one of them.

  7

  Medals. A black market in medals. I’ve no doubt it exists—there’d be a black market for toenail clippings if there were a demand for them—but I haven’t the slightest idea where to find it. Of course, the denizens of Moscow’s underworld are no different than others. They live in shadows, prey in darkness, and keep on the move to stay one step ahead of the militia—which sort of narrows it a little. It’s hostile territory, regardless. Yuri was right. If anyone can give me an entrée and safe passage, it’s Arkady Barkhin. All I have to do is find him.

  I can’t imagine it will be this easy, but I dig his number out of my files and call him. The woman who answers says she’s had the number for years and has never heard of Arkady Barkhin. To make matters worse, despite a widely publicized contract with a Western supplier, Moscow still doesn’t have a comprehensive telephone directory. Furthermore, before giving out a number, the 09 information service requires the caller know the citizen’s full name and address—which leaves me with my story notes. Hastily written years ago, they contain the names of restaurants and cafés where I’d met with Barkhin and other athletes who’d been junked by the government.

  I take the Metro back to the city and spend several evenings making the rounds of mafiya-infested night spots. The resident thugs are easily identified by their Levi’s, leather jackets, and Adidas running shoes. They dismiss my inquiries about Arkady Barkhin with shrugs, glazed eyes, and in some cases, what seem to be convenient memory lapses. My next stop is in the Arbat District.

  What functions as a shopping mall by day turns into a freak show after dark. Despite the sub-freezing temperature, the pimps, prostitutes, and supporting cast of con artists are out in full force, feverishly hawking their wares to score as many Johns and take as many suckers as possible before the police shut them down. Even locals can lose their way in this labyrinth of twisting streets and alleys, and it takes me a while to get oriented. I’m being hustled by a rock groupie with purple hair selling back-issues of Rolling Stone when I turn a corner and spot a weathered sign that whispers KAFÉ SKAZKA.

  It’s a grim cavern of cracked plaster that reeks of tobacco and stale beer. At this hour, the customers are few and silent, the pain of empty lives temporarily deadened. Loners hunch over a slab of stained marble that serves as a bar. The more gregarious commiserate at rickety tables on twisted wire chairs. In a corner far from the window, a group of athlete-enforcers stare blankly into their vodkas in search of past glories.

  I’m dying for a drink, but continue to resist the urge and order what must be the evening’s tenth glass of mineral water.

  The bartender, a rotund fellow with a face veined like a road map, fills a mug with Borzhomi and slides it in my direction. “Get you anything else?”

  I slip a pack of Marlboros from my pocket and place it on the bar. “Some information.”

  His eyes dart longingly to the cigarettes, then harden with suspicion. “See that?” He points to the disclaimer that warns smoking can be hazardous to your health. “It goes double for guys like you.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble. Just a friend.”

  “There are a lot of cafés in Moscow, pal.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m hitting all his old haunts.”

  The bartender shrugs and wipes up a spill with a damp cloth, imparting a momentary luster to the marble.

  “The last time we were in here,” I resume, as he works his way down the bar, “my friend sold the owner on the benefits of paying for protection.”

  That gets his attention. Ditto for the desultory characters in the far corner. The sound of eyeballs clicking and necks snapping is followed by the rumble of chair legs and squeak of athletic shoes.

  I’m not surprised. Neither is the bartender. He hurries off to clear a distant table as the pitted mirror behind him darkens with swaggering men.

  A wall of leather closes around me. A gloved hand beats mine to the Marlboros. I turn on the barstool and find myself staring at the words ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY. The name of the popular heavy metal band is printed on a skin-tight T-shirt that clings to the thug’s chest. Neo-Nazi stubble covers his head. Sunglasses bridge a broken nose. Hooked and scarred rather than flattened, it’s clearly from battles fought on ice, not canvas.

  “You’re looking for a friend in the protection racket?” the thug demands, pushing his face to mine. The sunglasses are so close I can see the designer logo on the lens reads Ray-Ban.

  “Uh-huh. Haven’t seen him in years.”

  “You know who he worked for?”

  “Nobody. He was putting together his own operation. His name’s Barkhin. Arkady Barkhin.”

  “Never heard of him,” he says impassively, though his eyes could be wide with recognition behind those Ray-Bans. “Any of you?”

  As I expected, the knuckle-draggers flanking him grunt “Nyet,” in unison.

  “Well, thanks anyway. No harm in asking.” I force a smile, chalk up the Marlboros to the cost of doing business, and turn back toward the bar.

  “Don’t count on it,” Ray-Ban threatens, spinning me around to face him.

  My gut flutters and begins to tighten. “Pardon me? Have I missed something here?”

  “Yeah, asshole, like the whole point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Friends always know where to find you. Enemies have to ask.”

  “Look, Barkhin and I lost touch.”

  “Bullshit.” He removes the cellophane wrapper from the cigarettes with an angry flick of his wrist. “You owe him money or something. Right?”

  I’m getting the feeling he knows more about Arkady Barkhin than he’s telling and am tempted to explain, but think better of it. If owing Barkhin money is what’s on this thug’s mind, I might as well go with it. “Yeah, matter of fact I do. I’m looking for him so I can settle my account.”

  “Shame.” He pushes a Marlboro into the corner of his mouth and lights it. “I earn a living off people who welsh on debts.”

  “Nothing personal. I take mine seriously.”

  “Good. So do we. Come on, let’s have it,” he demands, motioning with his hand.

  “Have what?”

  “The cash. I’ll make sure your friend gets it.”

  Damn. I should’ve seen that coming. There’s no getting away with a white lie in this game. “But you said you didn’t know him.”

  “I don’t,” he cackles, drawing raucous laughter from his colleagues. “But my time’s worth a lot more than a fucking pack of Marlboros.” He pockets the cigarettes and signals the others with a nod. Hands grip my arms like vises and pin me to the bar. Ray-Ban goes through my pockets and takes my wallet. He eyes the few rubles with disdain. “What the fuck you think you’re paying back with this?”

  I doubt he’d be pleased to hear that I went along with the idea to manipulate him, or, assuming he can read, that I once wrote a story in support of washed-up athletes like him. No, I’m writing another story now and have no choice but to play it out. “I don’t have the money on me. I wasn’t sure I’d find him. I didn’t want to chance carrying it.”

  He snorts derisively. “Get him out of here.” He throws the rubles on the floo
r and stalks off with my wallet in the direction of the phone.

  The thugs jerk me from the stool then, all in one motion, hustle me to the door, and gleefully shove me into the street.

  My arms break the fall, but the ice-cold cobblestones are ungiving. I lie there for a moment reevaluating my position on discarded athletes, then head for the Metro station on Kropot-kinskaya. It’s the Kirov-Frunze line. Not the Zhdanov-Krasny. Not mine. But I’ve had all the electroshock therapy I can stand for one night and want out of the Arbat as fast as possible. I take the train north to Lubyanka Square station, until recently Dzerzhinsky Square, site of KGB Headquarters. Several Metro lines interconnect here. The arched colonnades, ornate chandeliers, and prerevolutionary murals go by in a blur as I dash between trains, then settle down for the long haul to Lyublino.

  The evening was a total loss. Worse than total. I have less now than when I started: no Marlboros, no wallet, no ID, no money, and no information on black-market medal dealers.

  The train lurches. The lights dim briefly. I stiffen, eyeing my fellow passengers with suspicion. A leather jacket on one. Running shoes on another. Sunglasses on a third. Ordinary citizens? Low-level gangsters? Weary workers? I hate to admit it, but Shevchenko was right. Moscow has traded one set of tyrants for another. We used to live in fear of being victimized by the police, now we fear being victimized by criminals. Victimized by ourselves.

  8

  It’s almost midnight when the train pulls into Lyublino Station. Nearly an hour and a half after I kissed the pavement outside Kafé Skazka. Vera’s shift ends soon. I’m counting on her to tend to my bruised ego, aching muscles, and zero bank balance, not necessarily in that order.

  Gusts of Arctic wind disperse the smog in wispy layers as I walk to my apartment. The streets are empty except for a few scavenging cats and a tradesman’s van, its dim headlights glowing like balls of yellow cotton. I’m at the corner when I notice a sedan emerging from a darkened side street.