Black Wolf, page 13
A curious sensation, like a fingernail dragging along the base of her skull, made her suddenly turn to see a man standing next to her, just behind her left shoulder. She hadn’t heard him approach, and she hadn’t noticed him mixing with the crowd. It was as though he’d appeared out of thin air.
He was not tall—perhaps an inch or two taller than she was—and he gave the impression of being both slight of frame and yet, at the same time, solid with dense, compacted muscle. He appeared to be in his late sixties. His skin was pale but not sickly, his gray hair cut close to the scalp and bristled like a fine wire brush. He was dressed all in black, and Mel instinctively looked to where his shirt was buttoned at the neck, expecting to see the white band of a clerical collar. There was none.
But his eyes were extraordinary. They were a dark hazel, liquid and expressive. Intelligent, inquisitive, those of a man attuned to the ways of the world and of the vagaries of history. It was seldom that Mel locked eyes with a stranger so deeply. His gaze was probing, relentless, and utterly pitiless, but she couldn’t look away. And from this she knew who he was.
As a child visiting the zoo, she had thrilled at standing close to the jaguars. She’d loved the excitement of taunting them just by her presence on the other side of the glass. Feeling the delicious swell of fear as they stared hungrily at her, putting her faith completely in the frail barrier that kept them back.
In the background, the orchestral interlude of “Russians” had begun. One by one, every hair on Mel’s arm stood up. She blinked and looked at the other guests, searching for one of her team members.
“Prokofiev, yes?” Martin Kavalchuk asked in English. His voice was mellifluous, as gentle as a priest asking if she had anything to confess.
Mel took a breath. “Yes.”
“For the film Lieutenant Kije, I believe.”
“That’s right.”
“And, just now,” Kavalchuk interjected, seeming genuinely curious. “What is he singing?”
Mel forced herself to turn fully toward him and meet his gaze again. “Just now he’s saying, ‘I hope the Russians love their children too.’”
Kavalchuk nodded thoughtfully as though this was a given. “Who is the artist?”
“His name is Sting.”
Surprisingly, Kavalchuk gave a restrained smile. He made a slight jabbing gesture with his forefinger. “Like a wasp.”
Mel was aware that the general volume in the apartment had dipped, and that many pairs of eyes were now watching the two of them. She could see Dan in her periphery, edging closer. She managed to work the muscles around her mouth into a smile as well. “That’s right.”
“The point of art, to be sharp on the senses, yes?” He peered at her, unblinking, his head cocked to one side as though intensely interested in her answer. Mel realized her blouse had dampened from sweat and was sticking to the small of her back.
“That’s right,” she said, resisting the impulse to look away. “When it’s allowed.”
Kavalchuk ducked his chin as though considering her last comment. “Melvina is an unusual name for a woman.”
Not surprising that he knew who she was, but chilling too. “I inherited it from my aunt.”
“Yes,” he said, as though answering a question only he could hear. “It’s a strong name. And are you as strong as your namesake?”
He put an emphasis on the word strong, and Mel wondered how many men, and women, had given up their deepest secrets to him through broken teeth.
He continued to stare at her, waiting for her to fill the silence, a silence that rose around her like a tidal wave. Finally, she blurted, “My aunt was a farmer’s wife in Wisconsin.”
“Where the cold lasts as long as a Siberian winter—”
The Alpha officer appeared at Kavalchuk’s side and whispered something into his ear.
All traces of polite civility vanished from his expression. “I must leave,” he told her. He turned on his heel and left the room, the crowd parting carefully around him.
Dan appeared, pressing a glass of vodka into Mel’s hand and guiding her to a chair. William had seated himself at the piano and began playing a Russian tune, with several of the female guests singing boozily along.
“You okay?” he asked before returning to the crowd. She nodded and downed the vodka, surprised to see that her hand was steady, her grip on the glass firm.
When she looked around the room, the guests had all resumed their partying. Even straitlaced Sveta had cozied up to William as he played, her head thrown back, crooning along with abandon. Julie sat close to Dan in quiet conversation while their eyes constantly surveyed the room. Oleg Shevchenko stood behind the women gathered at the piano, one large hand surreptitiously massaging the buttocks of a different woman than the one he’d arrived with. Ben was in a lively discussion with an attractive young woman she recognized from the external affairs ministry.
Everyone seemed to have made a connection. The only other person, besides herself, who sat apart from the enthusiastic partygoers was Minister Ivanov. He had placed himself in a far corner, his face a blank behind his black-rimmed glasses. He was completely motionless, and she realized he was staring in her direction.
She averted her eyes, scanning the group again for late arrivals, finding no new faces. And, frustratingly, no matches to any Iranian scientists. But there were plenty of eyes pointed in her direction. Her attempt to remain invisible had been defeated by the Black Wolf, and no matter where she moved, she felt the inquisitive, and sometimes hostile, stares of the party guests.
The air in the apartment was close and too warm, weighted with the scent of floral perfume and civet-heavy cologne. A light touch on her arm made her jump. It was Ben, offering her another vodka. The liquid in the glass looked viscous and cloudy, with a powerful odor of fermented potatoes. She stood abruptly, the feeling of claustrophobia overwhelming.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and walked quickly for the front door.
The hallway had been dark and cool. And would be much quieter. She opened the door and stepped out at the exact moment the desk clerk was stooping to pick up a couple of grease-stained paper bags. He startled and almost dropped them.
Mel apologized and he stared at her nervously for a few seconds.
“I’m collecting the garbage.” He said it defensively, as though she’d challenged his presence.
Still holding the bags, he wheeled around and walked rapidly toward the elevator. Without a backward glance, he stepped inside the cage, keyed the floor, and descended until he was lost from sight.
She removed her jacket and leaned back against the wall, purposely slowing her breathing and locking her knees so that her legs would stop shaking. She had fully expected to be scrutinized and surveilled by Byelorussian intelligence. But she had had no expectation of speaking one-on-one with the head of the KGB. And though she had been briefed by the Agency on the Russian Mafia, her American contacts were not yet aware of how brazen, and dangerous, the organization was quickly becoming.
She’d also not been prepared to witness the discovery of a murdered woman—a woman she had just befriended. She thought of Nadia yanking tight the imaginary rope around her neck, and Katya’s green skirt floating in the river. She made a promise to herself that before they left Minsk she’d corner William, if necessary, to get his take on the killer.
From inside the apartment, she could hear someone, in heavily accented English, saying, “William, you are the chairman of all good times!”
And William responding, “I’m not a chair, I’m a love seat.”
There was a wild outbreak of laughter and William transitioned from playing Russian pop music on his piano to an American rock song Mel vaguely remembered hearing on the radio as a young girl. Something about Red Riding Hood looking good. She couldn’t recall the name of the group, but she did remember the singer at times howling like a wolf. William sang the lyrics in English and at the appropriate moment the group of revelers howled along with him. It must be in his regular party repertoire.
During any other occasion, she would have considered his performance silly, humorous. But she had a dark, disquieting sense that the timing of the song was intentional. Meant as an exclamation point to the end of the sentence: The Black Wolf of the KGB has left his mark here!
Chapter 11
Saturday, August 4, 1990
The first of the partygoers began to leave around eleven, and by midnight the rest of the guests had staggered out the door in groups, or two by two. But it was another half hour before the four Americans appeared. The man in the blue Lada had left the party earlier, but he’d returned to sit in his darkened car, the engine off, waiting for another glimpse of the black-haired woman whose figure made his mouth water with longing.
The older American woman was full in the breast and her skirt hugged tightly to her backside in a way that suggested it would be firm to the touch. The tone of her voice was not pleasing, nor was the way her mouth twisted in frequent derision. But he knew how to silence that voice, to still that mouth.
The younger woman was interesting, to be sure. But she had a slightly neotenous face that did not inspire immediate passion. And yet…the more he sat with her image in his mind, waiting in the night, the more desirable she became.
He imagined how luminous her naked skin might look in the dark. How her wide-set eyes would grow enormous with fear. How he could twine her hair around his hand like silk thread around a spindle as he pulled her head back and slipped the noose around her neck. She’d had a clean smell, like freshly laundered bedsheets.
The Reznik woman smelled of expensive perfume, heavy and briny, like the odors following sex. Yes, he could well imagine the older woman naked. Her body still and pliable beneath his fingers. He knew she would be fertile. As her body gave up its nutrients to the earth, surely the mushrooms would grow thickly around her like a little army of conquering soldiers.
The fact that she was American heightened his anticipation. She would be clean-shaven, with strong, straight teeth and painted toenails. She’d have no dirt under her nails, no calluses on her feet, no venereal diseases, even though he could tell that she and the American kozyol were sleeping together.
The man dressed like a disgusting degheneraat, with his Western shoes only serviceable as slippers, his expensive suits and hair as long as a woman’s. But it was common knowledge the man was a spy, and beyond his self-satisfied smirk, he had the exacting gaze of a long-distance sniper. He’d been a soldier at one time, of that the man in the blue Lada was certain. So, the difficulty would be getting the black-haired woman away from the rest of the group. Away from her lover.
He watched as the Americans climbed into their van, one by one, and as they were driven away, back to the safety of their hotel.
The man in the blue Lada sat for a few more minutes, windows down, breathing in the smells of Minsk. Every city had a unique scent, and during the hot nights of August, his smelled of pine and river and the softening bones of a million comrades lying beneath the blood-soaked earth of his beloved Byelorussia.
Chapter 12
Sunday, August 5, 1990
The loud jangling of the boxy telephone next to Mel’s bed brought her roughly to consciousness. Her dreams had been dark and chaotic. It seemed that, for the entire night, she had wandered through a nightmarishly constructed house, a labyrinth with a seemingly endless series of rooms. Wandering through the darkened spaces, she could hear a woman crying, but try as she might, she couldn’t find her. When she opened her eyes, Mel thought first of Katya.
She squinted against the sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains. The phone was still ringing. After a few clumsy tries, she pulled the heavy receiver to her ear.
“Melvina, good morning.” William’s voice sounded alert, and much too loud. “Did I wake you?”
She rubbed at her eyes and sat up. “That’s okay. What time is it?”
“It’s eight o’clock,” he said cheerfully. “Look, I’ve already phoned Dan and he’s given the okay for you to take a little excursion.”
“An excursion?” She looked at the bedside clock to confirm the hour and groaned.
She and her three colleagues had stayed at William’s to review the evening long after all the other party guests had departed. Who’d said what and to whom. Disappointingly, there was no important information to share, other than who was cheating on their spouse.
Curiously, it seemed no one had brought up Katya’s murder.
“It’s as though she was just erased,” Julie had said, her eyes sad. “Shouldn’t a murder be a juicy item of gossip at a party?”
“Ah, but don’t you know there’s no murder in paradise?” William said, smiling cynically.
As William walked them all to the door to say good night, he’d turned to Mel and said, “I’d be happy to bring you that caviar you asked me about. Tomorrow, if you’d like.”
As she hadn’t recognized any of the guests as her targets, Mel had declined the offer.
Shaken by the many events of the day, she hadn’t fallen asleep until two o’clock in the morning.
Now, too early, William was talking about an excursion. Her head throbbed and her shoulders ached. She wanted nothing more than to pull the covers back over her head.
“I’ve arranged for a guide to pick you up in one hour. You’ll take a little tour of the Byelorussian countryside,” he said. When she didn’t answer he added, “It will do you good. I think last night put a bit of strain on you. Be out front in one hour.”
She made an impatient sound. “William, I just don’t—”
“Melvina,” he interrupted her. “You need to trust me. A few hours out of Minsk this morning is the best thing.”
He hung up before she could protest or ask any more questions. The tone of his voice brooked no dissent. Thinking of how he had orchestrated Ben’s mishap, Mel realized that William’s message was clear: she would be spending the day outside Minsk.
She showered and dressed, leaving just enough time to have some tea and a sweet roll in the dining room. None of her colleagues were around, and she wondered, enviously, if Dan had fallen back to sleep after speaking to William.
At nine o’clock she walked out of the hotel and into a brilliantly lit summer day. There was a strong fragrance of pine trees and damp, rich soil in the air, and despite her reservations about the unexpected change of plans, she was glad William had gotten her out of bed. The emotional hangover from her disturbing dreams had begun to fade. Left to her own devices, she probably would have spent most of that Sunday in her room reading. She hoped that whoever the guide was that William had chosen, he, or she, wasn’t too talkative. She’d like nothing better than to sit back and enjoy a peaceful, restorative drive into the country, away from the ever-present Soviet scrutiny.
A long black car was parked a few yards from the front entrance, and a man stepped out of the driver’s seat. He wore a summer-weight linen shirt and pressed slacks, so it took Mel a few moments to recognize him.
Alexi grinned and said, “I think you don’t know me at first.”
She almost laughed with relief, afraid to acknowledge the thrill she felt that she’d be spending the day with him.
Alexi walked to the passenger side and opened the door for her. She met his gaze for a moment—eyes clear and strikingly gray—and his grin widened. She slid into the seat, marveling at the beautiful interior, the polished chrome and wooden paneling. The seats felt like rolled cashmere edged with leather. When he closed her door, the thunk of metal sounded like the closing of a cavernous bank vault.
He took his place at the wheel and started the engine before turning to her, his arm resting casually along the back of the seat. A few more inches and he’d touch her shoulder. His movements were relaxed, almost languid, putting her at ease and banishing her nervousness over seeing him again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this weightless around a man.
“William has instructed me to give you a day without any worries. Or I will have to answer to him.”
Alexi’s tone was serious, the words delivered in a formal, exacting manner. But he gave her his quicksilver smile and placed both hands lightly on the steering wheel. He put the car in gear and eased out onto the Prospeckte Pobeditelei.
“Where are we going?” Mel asked.
“To the real Byelorussia,” he said.
When they crossed over the river, Alexi pointed out the Bolshoi Opera House, which had been built on a hill. He told Mel that nothing in Minsk could be built higher than the Bolshoi because it could then be seen from Poland, a country that, for the first time in forty years, had a non-Communist leader.
“We Byelorussians are like children playing hide-and-seek,” he said. “We think that if we can’t see the other players, they won’t be able to see us.”
After that they drove a long way in silence. He seemed to sense that she needed quiet. All the windows were rolled down, and he drove at a sedate speed until they were beyond the last of the blocky apartment buildings and warehouses at the outer fringe of the city.
From time to time, she watched him surreptitiously as he drove. The kaleidoscope of ash and silver in his hair, the tendons at the base of his neck, the way the muscles in his forearms flexed. She liked the alertness of him, his economy of motion, the way he seemed completely at ease in his own skin.
“This is a beautiful car,” she said at last, wanting to hear the sound of his voice again.
“Yes,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s not mine. It’s our friend William’s car. I believe the suspension in my car would break your spine. Byelorussian country roads are sometimes not so good.”
