Black Wolf, page 11
Mel worked for another few hours until the pressure in her head demanded attention. She drew a bath and soaked in the hot water, committing to her daily processing. She got dressed slowly and at four o’clock left the room, her purse in one hand, and the new, as-yet unworn sweater in the other.
As she passed the hall monitor, she placed the sweater on the desk. It was an oversized pullover, in a loose weave, a lovely shade of lilac.
“Etot sviter luchshe dlya tebya,” Mel said in her awkward Russian. This sweater will look better on you.
The woman looked up at her, surprised, but Mel walked on without pausing to the elevator. As the doors closed, she caught the woman stroking the sweater with her fingertips as she would have a shy cat. Alone in the elevator, Mel gave a satisfied exhalation, remembering one of the Moscow Rules, the unwritten strategies for avoiding detection in the Soviet Union, which was: Lull them into complacency. Mel had memorized the rules as soon as she knew she would be assigned to Byelorussia.
Mel went straight from the lobby into the Planeta Mir. Dan had told the team to be on alert, but he hadn’t told them not to have a drink in the bar. The same half dozen Germans were sitting at the café tables, and she wondered if they ever even pretended to have a job outside the hotel. They stopped conversing and looked her over with interest. It was not unusual for a local, enterprising woman to appear alone. It was highly unusual for a Western woman, obviously there on official business, to enter without male accompaniment.
She made the snap decision to sit at the bar, placing her handbag firmly in her lap, her back to the Germans. The bartender was a stout, thick-waisted man with a badly set nose. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit coat, so tight across the shoulders that one good flex would probably rip out the seams. His tie was badly knotted and was as broad as her palm. He finished wiping a glass and placed it with exaggerated care on the shelf behind him. He rested both palms on the bar in front of her and cocked his head, stretching his full lips into an amused grin.
“You old enough to drink, little girl?” he asked in broken English.
“Well,” she answered, folding her hands primly on top of the bar, “I am certainly younger than your tie.”
He clapped a hand to his chest as though wounded, and asked, “Pivo?”
“Nyet,” she answered. “Vodka.”
He nodded, impressed, and poured a healthy shot into a glass.
Mel downed it in one go. “Snova, pozhaluysta.”
Again, please.
He threw back his head and laughed, and Mel realized it was the first unfettered expression of amusement she’d seen since arriving in Minsk. The bartender poured a few more ounces of vodka into her glass and moved away, still chuckling.
The alcohol coursed through her system like hot water through frozen pipes, and for the first time since early that morning she began to fully relax.
She heard conversation to her right and recognized two of the women who’d been at the bar the previous afternoon, one dark-haired, the other the remarkable blonde. They were throwing guarded looks in her direction and whispering.
Mel decided to ignore them and stared into her glass. She found she was looking forward to tonight’s gathering at William’s apartment. After the events of the past few days, she was hoping to steal a few brief moments alone to talk to him. She realized she missed her father’s calm, steady guidance, and in William she felt some of that same protection.
For as far back as her memory could take her, she had often felt set apart, isolated, even in a room full of people. Maybe especially then. It was more than social awkwardness. Over the years she’d overheard the comments from her teachers, coaches, and friends describing her as odd and, once, disturbing. And that was even before they got a sense of her recognition abilities.
At one of the few high school parties she’d attended, she’d finally been introduced to Sam, someone she’d nurtured a silent crush on for the entire year, but to whom she’d never spoken. She would have bet her father’s badge that he’d never noticed her before.
But that night, his smile had seemed genuine. He’d said hello, and even offered her a sip of beer out of his red party cup. It was the first time she’d overindulged in liquor and she was well on her way to being drunk.
She took a big swallow, desperately trying to come up with something to say; anything that would keep his interest. “You’re wearing the same school jersey you wore last October at the Badgers’ football game,” she’d said, slurring her words. “You were in section E, fourth seat from the aisle. My dad and I were in section S. That was a great game…”
A curtain of silence settled around them. Mel swayed unsteadily against someone standing behind her.
“Dude,” someone had said. “That stadium holds, like, seventy thousand people—”
She’d never forget the look on Sam’s face. It was not a look of surprise, or even of confusion. He’d been afraid.
Mel had learned at a young age to keep herself to herself. Even while in training at the Farm, she’d felt as though she lived in some kind of bubble, where she could see and be seen but never touched. Despite her growing ease with Ben and Julie, the secretiveness of her mission, by necessity, kept her at arm’s length from any true friendship.
“Izvinite, pozhaluysta.” The voice was so close to her ear that Mel jumped.
The dark-haired woman was standing next to her. She was dressed in a short, flowered dress, and she looked nervous.
“I don’t really speak Russian,” Mel said, disoriented and hoping to discourage any further conversation.
“Excuse me, please,” the woman repeated in English. “There was woman, in park this morning—” She broke off and eyed her blond friend, still seated at the far end of the bar. “You saw this woman? She was dead, yes?”
Mel took a breath. “Yes, a body was found in the river this morning.”
The woman slid into the seat next to Mel. “But not drowned.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Killed, yes?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Mel could see the blonde approaching them. She sat on the far side of her dark-haired companion, her challenging gaze firmly fixed on Mel.
No way out of this, then. “Yes, it looks like she may have been murdered.”
The blond woman nodded and pulled a cigarette out of her purse. The bartender appeared and lit it. She took a deep drag and then dismissively waved him away. She turned back to Mel. “You’re with the Americans. What’s your name?”
The events of the day, and the blond woman’s demanding, prickly veneer, had all worked to buff out the need for social niceties. Mel held up her vodka in a parody of a toast. “Ugly American Bitch. What’s your name?”
The woman reared back and looked at Mel as though seeing her for the first time. A slow smile crept onto her face. “My name is Nadia Ivanovna,” she said, giving her patronymic. “We have no last names here.”
Mel held out her hand. “My name is Melvina. Mel to my friends.”
Nadia’s fingers were slender and warm, her grip firm. She ordered three vodkas from the bartender, and the dark-haired woman introduced herself as Larysa.
As soon as the drinks were placed on the bar, Nadia tamped out her cigarette and changed seats so that she was seated to Mel’s left. And as the two women questioned her, Mel was forced to swivel her head back and forth between them. They asked her where she was from and how long she was staying in Minsk. Larysa’s English was poor, and she used Nadia as translator.
Nadia offered Mel a cigarette, which she declined. The cigarettes were German-made, instead of the common Russian brand. Nadia placed one between her lips and lit it with a small, expensive-looking gold lighter.
“Did you know who is this woman, the one pulled from the river?” Nadia asked, blowing smoke above their heads.
Mel looked down at her drink, but she could still sense both pairs of eyes boring into her. “I think…I think it was someone who worked at the Ministry of External Affairs?”
Larysa fired off a few rapid questions in Russian and placed her hand on Mel’s arm as if to give greater weight to the words.
“Larysa wants to know was this woman tied with rope?”
Mel nodded, surprised at how quickly the details of the killing had circulated.
“Svisloch Dushitel!” Larysa murmured, her eyes wide.
While the two women leaned in, trading urgent, emotionally charged whispers, Mel gestured to the bartender and ordered three more drinks. She knew that if she wasn’t careful, she’d be sliding toward inebriation, but already the sensation was like a warm blanket, tempering the upheaval of the past few days.
“Svisloch is the Minsk river,” Mel said, breaking into their exchange. “What does Dushitel mean?”
Nadia set her cigarette in an ashtray. “It means—” She put an imaginary noose around her neck and yanked it tight with one hand. “This man has killed many women.”
A serial killer. Here in Minsk. How had she not thought of it that way?
The fresh vodkas were set in front of them, and they drank in silence. Mel gratefully embraced her sense of relief. Perhaps she’d had nothing to do with Katya’s death. Maybe it was just a terrible coincidence; Katya had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Larysa said something mournful in Russian.
“She’s worried about her son, Vassily,” Nadia explained. “If something happens to her, there is no one to take care of him. She’s from Ukraine. Husband dead from Chernobyl. Parents dead too. The son was born with heart outside of body. She comes to Minsk for surgery for him. He’s only four, but will not live much longer, I think.”
At Vassily’s name Larysa pawed through her purse and brought out a laminated photo of a small boy with huge eyes and a head too big for his frail body. She handed it to Mel as she might a religious icon.
The photo was heartbreaking. The boy looked as though he were made of parchment. “He’s beautiful.” Mel wasn’t sure what else she could offer and handed the photo back to Larysa. “Do you have any children?” she asked Nadia.
In that moment, a hulking form draped itself noisily over Nadia’s shoulder. It was one of the Germans, very drunk and sweating profusely. He whispered something in her ear and Nadia pushed him away so forcefully that he almost lost his footing. He staggered backward, his entreaties becoming more insistent, and belligerent. But before the bartender could move out from behind the bar, Nadia released a torrent of Russian insults so acidic they needed no translator.
The German only laughed and staggered back to his tablemates.
Nadia turned to face Mel, her outrage already cloaked behind well-practiced contempt. “Do I have any children?” She laughed bitterly. “Yes, that mudak sitting there is one. They are all like children.” She lit another cigarette, exhaling loudly.
“What does Idi no hoi mean?” Mel asked.
After a pause, the bartender barked out a laugh, and Nadia and Larysa both grinned.
“Idi na hui,” Nadia corrected her. “It means ‘go to the dick.’”
Mel hoisted the last of her vodka in a kind of salute. “Okay, then. Idi na hui.”
Larysa, still sitting to Mel’s right, nodded in the direction of the entrance. “Your boss?”
Mel turned and saw Dan standing in the doorway, a strange smile on his face. “My boss for now,” she answered. “Have another drink on me.”
Mel took a handful of rubles out of her purse and laid them on the bar. But when she passed Dan, she realized his focus was not on her, but on the dimly lit interior of the Planeta Mir. Nadia had swiveled her chair to face him, her long legs crossed provocatively, her skirt pulled tight across her upper thighs. Her generous lips were stretched in a seductive smile, a burning cigarette held in one graceful hand.
Dan caught up with Mel as she walked out of the hotel, looking expectantly for Anton’s van. She spotted it parked at the far end of the driveway, Ben and Julie already seated inside.
“You’re making friends all over the place,” Dan said, stepping in front of her. “Hold up. How many drinks have you had?”
He was smiling but the question felt invasive. Especially after remembering her drunken high school incident. Defensively, Mel started to brush past him. “More than one, less than ten.”
“Find out anything interesting?”
“Svisloch Dushitel,” she answered. “The Svisloch Strangler. He kills with a rope. I think the authorities here have a bigger problem than crimes of passion, or Mafia vengeance. Minsk may have a serial killer.”
Dan made a dismissive sound. “You don’t know that for certain. Besides, official Soviet policy is that there are no serial killers.”
Mel opened the door to the van and turned to look at him incredulously. “That’s nonsense and you know it. You really think Soviet men are fundamentally different? If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck—”
Dan leaned in, blocking her from entering the van. “Mel,” he said quietly, “be very careful who you say the words ‘serial killer’ to while we’re here. Even talking about certain crimes is a criminal offense with the KGB. Promise me you’ll only discuss it with our team, and only when you can’t be overheard, okay?”
She met his gaze and nodded. He moved out of the way, and she climbed into the van, sliding into the back row next to Ben. Elena gave her a brisk nod over her shoulder.
“Wow,” Ben said to Mel as she settled herself awkwardly into her seat. “Somebody’s already gotten a jump start on the weekend.” He waved the air in front of his face and pulled out a roll of breath mints, offering her one.
She looked at him, feigning indignation. “I was improving international relations in the bar.”
Julie snorted, and in that moment, Mel caught Anton’s face in the rearview mirror. He met her eyes for a moment and grinned.
Ben said, “Okay, but you’re looking a little pale.”
Mel did, in that moment, feel a bit dizzy. The comfortable fog of alcohol was retreating, and when she closed her eyes, she had the sensation of being locked in an overcrowded, airless closet.
Mel leaned her head back against the seat and stared up at the stained, upholstered roof, taking deep breaths. She thought of the fear in Larysa’s and Nadia’s eyes as they talked about the Svisloch Strangler.
She was unprepared for the van’s abrupt stop and yelped when she was pitched forward. Through the windshield she could see that the car in front of them, a small green Volga, had been stopped by a group of men standing in the street. They had turned onto a small side avenue where there were no other cars and no pedestrians. It was after five o’clock, but still fully light, and Mel had no trouble making out the faces of the men, all of whom had turned to face their van. They looked young, and very fit, dressed in expensive-looking leather jackets and jeans. Elena sat forward, her back rigid, grasping the dashboard until her fingers turned white.
“What’s going on?” Dan asked.
Anton didn’t answer, but Mel could see the muscles in his neck and shoulders bunching tensely. He leaned forward, retrieving something from under the driver’s seat.
Dan stirred restlessly. “Hey, Anton—”
Anton turned his head slightly and snapped, “Spokoyen!”
Quiet!
Two of the men broke off from the group and approached the van in a leisurely fashion. Anton rolled down the driver’s-side window and propped something metallic against the bottom of the frame. When the older of the two was a few feet from the driver’s side, his companion circled the van, peering into the interior, taking note of all the occupants. When Mel scanned his face, she immediately pegged him as one of the kitchen workers from the Planeta. A waiter, carrying an empty tray, had opened the swinging doors to the kitchen, and she had caught a glimpse of the young man in his service whites, smoking a cigarette. Now, he pointed at her and grinned unpleasantly as though he recognized her as well.
Anton rested one beefy arm on the window frame, raising what was in his other hand slowly. It was a revolver, the size of a small cannon. He rested the barrel steadily in the crook of his elbow. The man saw it and took a few steps back.
Excited voices erupted from the Volga, and the driver was pulled from the driver’s seat and thrown roughly across the hood, his pockets searched. He was then manhandled into the backseat, where glimpses through the rear window revealed what looked like a brutal beating.
“What’s happening?” Dan asked again, his voice tight.
Anton still ignored him, keeping firm eye contact with the lead man. There was a brief exchange between them in Russian—the words spoken too rapidly for Mel to understand—and the two men returned to the Volga at last. The older man sat in the driver’s seat, his younger companion in the front passenger side, and they drove away, the original driver still in the backseat with his attackers. The rest of the group scattered and disappeared into the alleyways.
Replacing the gun under his seat, Anton put the van in gear and continued their drive toward William’s apartment.
Dan turned to Julie, clearly angry. “Will you please ask Anton what in the holy fuck just happened?”
Julie asked, in Russian, if they had just witnessed an undercover police action.
Anton let out a cynical laugh. “Nyet. Bratva.”
That one, Mel did understand. The Brotherhood.
Chapter 10
Saturday, August 4, 1990
Mel and her group arrived at William’s apartment building, still shaken, and were greeted by the same doleful desk clerk as before. The ghostly sounds of someone playing a piano echoed down from an upper floor. The melodious chords partnered with the deepening evening shadows to transport the ornate lobby into an earlier time, before the Great Revolution, and before the end of Romanov finery.
