Black Wolf, page 33
Crossing his arms, Kavalchuk stopped his pacing. “Yes, the last woman was killed in a very public place. The chance of detection was greatly magnified.” He studied the ceiling. “Most of the murder victims discovered were killed at night, which could possibly mean that he works during the day.”
“Possibly,” Mel said, nodding. “Or, conversely, that he works as a night guard and is killing while on duty. One of the biggest questions is the matter of the women not found. You said that there was no commonality between the women found and the women missing. But perhaps those comparisons are clouding the equation? If we exclude the women who have been found, is there a similarity to those still missing?”
Kavalchuk quickly turned to her. “They were mostly substantial women. Fleshy, we would say.” He paused. “Although the gymnast had been quite slender.”
“‘Had been,’” Mel repeated. Competing gymnasts reached their prime before their twenties. “How old was she when abducted?”
Kavalchuk shrugged. “Forty, forty-five?”
“A woman’s body can change a lot over twenty years.”
“Yes, yes it can,” he said, looking at her as though seeing her for the first time.
Mel could almost read his thoughts: Here is forward momentum. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, presenting a cohesive picture.
“He’s being selective, then,” Kavalchuk said, resuming his pacing. “He has some purpose for them. Perhaps he’s attracted in a sexual way to large women. He’s taking them somewhere to rape them in private.”
“There is often a deviant sexual component to torture and sadistic murder,” Mel agreed, fighting the urge to grind her teeth. “And some serial killers, I’ve read, experienced sexual release only after they revisited the crime in their fantasies. So the lack of bodily fluids on the dead women might not mean anything. But we also don’t have proof it’s sexual in nature at all.”
“What else could it be?”
“With all due respect, you’re thinking in conventional terms.” When his expression darkened, Mel hurried to add, “You’re equating rape with sex and not violence. Every woman knows it’s about power.”
“Then what else could he be doing with the women he takes?”
She hesitated for a moment before going on. “There have been instances of cannibalism in sadistic murders. You mentioned Ed Gein. He kept trophies of his victims. Skin and body parts. Perhaps he has use for them after death?”
“To do what?”
The overhead lights were pulsing in erratic waves and she lowered her head to shield her eyes. “I don’t know.”
Kavalchuk sat once more at his desk. “Tell me what you think you do know.”
Mel took a deep breath. “Your killer is a strong man, highly organized, and supremely confident. His methods are sophisticated. He’s been practicing killing for a long time, which might make him an older man. Someone who’s professional, intelligent, and highly exacting in his routines. He commands respect, or fear, as he’s often able to lure, or compel, women to go to private places. That he killed the most recent woman in broad daylight behind a church means not only that he’s bold, but that he would blend in with other common, respectable men on the street. He would need a car to execute his crimes and transport the women, alive or dead.
“And lastly, the murder weapon. Something was tugging at my memory. And I realized: his ropes. The way he ties them. It’s a little-known torture technique from Colonial America, used during the so-called witch trials of the seventeenth century. It’s called the Bow. Only someone who had studied early American history would know about it.”
Kavalchuk stood rigidly motionless, his gaze eager, almost feverish. “This could be another vital clue. One we’d not considered.”
“Unfortunately, the West has had its share of violence toward women.”
Kavalchuk shook his head, running a hand over the dense bristle of his gray hair. “The West is not unique in this regard.” Rising to pace once more, he continued. “The description you have given of the killer could apply to half of the men in Byelorussia and most of the men in the politburo. It could even be me.”
“Are you married?”
“No, I am widowed,” he answered curtly. “Heart attack. Dead two years now.”
It seemed oddly personal, and chillingly unemotional, this confession. If the apartment where she’d been taken was in fact Kavalchuk’s residence, there was no evidence that he’d ever had a private life. Even a widower would normally keep evidence of a family, at least for a while. But then again, what would be normal for the head of the KGB? Especially a man who’d been responsible for countless arrests, and deaths, during his tenure. What kind of woman would be wife to the Black Wolf of Byelorussia?
She took a breath to order her thoughts. At Quantico she’d once been able to obtain an official psychological profile of a killer nicknamed Pogo the Clown, who’d buried dozens of young men under his house. The FBI had documented how he was superficially charming, successful at his job, and married. But there was no way she could mention the FBI now.
“What I say next is based on things I read in my college psychology class about the serial killer John Wayne Gacy. But I think it applies to similar killers as they’ve been profiled by US law enforcement. I’d guess the Strangler is probably married, possibly with children. It gives him cover. As in Colonial America, a man unmarried for a long period of time will fall under suspicion. He also has a place, maybe a dacha or second apartment, to take his victims to.”
“You’ve told me what your mind informs you about the Svisloch Dushitel. What does your gut tell you?”
“He’s going to kill again. And he’ll keep killing until you stop him.”
“And the murdered woman who looks like you?”
To Mel, the dead woman’s face had been that of a stranger. Every face was distinct, with a million different variations, but in ways that most people couldn’t detect—at least not instantaneously. But she had to now admit the possibility that she had been the Strangler’s target. Here was a new fear to add to her growing list.
“I think…that means the killer is someone who’s been in my company. Who has perhaps formed either an attachment, or a dislike—”
“Perhaps even an obsession with you?” he asked. He looked at her with a raised brow, his tone gently mocking.
She had the uncanny feeling that he was somehow teasing her. His menacing air, his very posture, had, at some point in their conversation, softened. It both reassured her and put her on high alert.
The young Alpha officer entered the room following a quick knock and whispered into Kavalchuk’s ear. Kavalchuk looked at him sharply and then dismissed him. He handed Mel a piece of paper and a pencil.
“I want you to write down every man with whom you’ve come in close contact who you feel is capable of being our killer. At the ministry, the institute, the hotel, and even here, in this building. If you don’t know his name, put down his location and a physical description. Underline the name of any man who’s been inappropriate with you, or who’s made you uncomfortable.”
She caught and held his eye for a moment. Incredibly, there was not the slightest hint of irony in his last uttered sentence. Nadia had said that every woman in Minsk had a boyfriend, or a husband, or a boss, who could be a suspect. Sadly, someone Nadia had encountered had proven her right. The terrifying question now was, did Mel know that same someone?
As she made her list, Kavalchuk once more paced the floor methodically, slowly circling her chair until he stood behind her, out of her range of sight. She felt the intensity of his focus directed like an arrow at her back.
After fifteen minutes, she’d written down the names or descriptions of the dozen or so men she’d been in daily contact with. It was only a small fraction of the remembered faces she’d scanned during her time in Minsk. When she’d finished, she handed the paper over her shoulder to Kavalchuk. He took it from her hand and was silent for a moment.
“I must tell you that you cannot be correct with some of these names,” he said with conviction. “I asked you to write the names of the men you feel capable of being the killer.”
“Yes, that’s what I did.”
He shook his head vigorously. “You are accusing highly ranked members of the Communist Party.”
She turned in her seat to face him. Whatever had caused him to relax his stance with her earlier had hardened again. “They are powerful men with resources, and they fit the criteria—”
“Enough!” Kavalchuk said forcefully. “It is simply not possible. Some of these men are war heroes.”
He returned to his desk, his expression strained. He took a few moments to compose himself.
Her body ached from sitting in the hard chair, and from the tension of being questioned for hours. She was physically and emotionally drained and wanted nothing more than to sleep, but she made one more attempt to get him to think past his own prejudices, and perhaps his own arrogance. “My father used to say that no matter how strong the boat, if it’s got holes in it it’s going to sink. You can recite official policy from now until doomsday, but it doesn’t change human nature.”
Kavalchuk stared at her, unblinking, entrenched in a lifetime of Soviet doctrine. Believing that something was true because the party said it was so. She leaned forward, willing him to hear her.
“You’re going to have more murdered women if you don’t broaden your search. My guess is, you’ve already arrested the usual suspects and yet the killings have continued. Can you at least consider all the men I’ve listed?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Beyond what I’ve told you, I can’t help you.”
His eyelids lowered to half-mast, and he clasped his hands over the desk. The shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and at his temples had deepened, as though his body were caving in on itself. “I’ve just been informed that the First Directorate of the KGB is sending an envoy from Moscow tomorrow morning. I’m ordered to turn you over to him for transport to Lubyanka prison for further questioning. You’ve been named as an agent of Glavniy Vrag.”
The Main Enemy. Stalin’s name for his greatest foe, the United States. A label like this could easily mean a death sentence. Her eyes darted frantically along the walls to the far door, sure to be locked and guarded.
“I’m an American citizen,” she whispered.
“But you are suspected to be a spy. It cannot be a coincidence that you are here, now, when Byelorussia is fortifying ties with a foreign entity hostile to America.”
She peered through bloodshot eyes at Kavalchuk, searching for some compassion. “I was sent here as a secretary.”
His mouth twisted unpleasantly. “Years ago,” he said, “I was assigned as head of security to Leonid Brezhnev at a forest retreat in Brest, close to the Polish border. It was toward the end of his life. He had cancer, lung ailments, gout. The man could hardly walk, but he would still drink vodka and smoke ten cigarettes in an hour. He wanted to hunt deer and so I was tasked with finding deer, drugging them, and tying them to a tree. His personal aide would help him hoist the rifle. And still the man couldn’t hit his mark.
“Yuri Andropov was with us. He said to me, ‘Martin Gregorivich, Brezhnev is perceived as a great hunter. If you have to wear antlers yourself and let him shoot you, he will get his kill. He’s first secretary of the Soviet Union and will not be embarrassed.’”
Mel remembered seeing newsreels of Brezhnev, a stern, robust man with eyebrows as thick and black as boot brushes, and a deep belief in Soviet doctrine. She could imagine that he would never forgive a perceived slight or humiliation.
“I hid with a rifle in the trees behind Brezhnev,” Kavalchuk said, “and timed my shots with his, bringing down the deer. If his remaining security detail had seen me, pointing a rifle in Brezhnev’s direction, I would have been shot.”
He said it matter-of-factly, crossing his arms. “But I was willing to take the risk because I am a true believer and it meant something to my country.”
He took up his pad of paper and wrote something. When he was finished, he tore the sheet off the pad and folded it.
“There is only one person, I believe, who can countermand the order from the First Directorate,” he said, holding the note aloft. “I have written here that you may be the key to helping solve the mystery of what happened to the famous gymnast, mistress to the chairman, Vyacheslav Kobets. Chairman Kobets believes that Byelorussia may become independent. There is disagreement about this in our parliament, but it may be useful for the chairman to flex some of his political muscles in thwarting Moscow right now.”
She looked at the man seated across from her. A man who could, with a word, and within the hour, arrange to have her corpse placed alongside her doppelgänger. “Why would you do this?”
He stared at her through hooded eyes. “I could tell you that it’s because I think you are a true believer as well. That you are someone willing to risk their life for the good of their country. There are very few of us left in these days of cynical compromise.” He pressed a button on his desk and the young Alpha officer appeared to take her back to her cell.
“But the truth is,” he continued, “I have a killer to catch, and very little time to do it. I will revisit your list of important men, Melvina Donleavy, and if you are right, you can congratulate yourself that a mere secretary will have shaken the government to its core.”
Chapter 34
Tuesday, August 21, 1990
For what felt like the hundredth time, Mel rolled in her bunk from one side to the other, trying to find a position that would relieve the tension in her neck and the roaring in her head. Light continued to flood the cell. She’d managed to drift off into sleep a few times, but always some noise or bodily discomfort would yank her back to consciousness.
Despite the pain, she still had control of her motor functions. But she didn’t know how many more hours of rational thought she had left. If her experience during training held, there would be no warnings before her switch was triggered. Other than the pain, it would be like slipping under anesthesia—awake one minute, unconscious the next. Except that her body would be left on autopilot, defensively and blindly striking out.
Luckily, it seemed she’d only been in the cell for a few more hours when a guard opened the door and Oksana walked in holding a change of clothes.
“You must get up,” she ordered, and stood by silently as Mel took off the prison dress and put on a plain, summer-weight skirt and blouse with a bright yellow cardigan.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Mel asked, slipping her feet into a pair of flats.
Stony-faced, Oksana only gestured Mel out of the cell and into the elevator. With a sinking heart, Mel realized she was being led back to the interrogation room. But this time, when the guard opened the door, she saw Kavalchuk standing next to a man in a white doctor’s coat. Next to the man was a cart with a stethoscope and what looked like several hypodermic syringes. The young Alpha officer was standing on the other side of the doctor.
She started to back up, but the guard pulled her into the room and forcibly lowered her into the chair. Her elevated heart rate set the cadence for the throbbing in her head, and she felt bile at the back of her throat. For a moment she thought she’d start retching.
“You’re not well,” Kavalchuk said. “The doctor will check your heart to make sure you’re fit to travel.”
Her panicked gaze searched the enclosed room. “Travel? What do you mean?”
The guard tightened his grip on Mel’s shoulder as the doctor approached. He held up a hand to show her the stethoscope and said, in heavily accented English, “I will check only to see if your heart is strong.”
He stooped down and moved the stethoscope diaphragm over her chest, listening. When he was finished, he straightened and turned to Kavalchuk, saying something in Russian. She understood the words ochen’ bystro—very fast—and guessed that he was talking about her accelerated heart rate. They exchanged a few more phrases before the doctor shrugged and picked up one of the syringes from the cart. It was filled with a milky-looking liquid.
“What are you doing?” Mel had meant to sound firmly outraged, but her voice cracked with fear.
“Ergotamine,” the doctor said. “For your headache.”
“It’s not that kind of headache—” The guard pulled Mel’s wrists together behind her back. Oksana wrapped one arm around her neck in a wrestler’s hold and squeezed.
The doctor tapped one finger against the glass cylinder and expressed a little of the liquid through the end of the needle. With surprising speed, he approached Mel, jabbing her in her shoulder, delivering the drug. When the doctor returned to the cart for the second hypodermic, Mel renewed her struggles. She tried biting Oksana’s arm and kicking out with her feet.
Kavalchuk approached and said quietly, “I will have you restrained if you do not cooperate.”
“What’s in the second shot?” she demanded.
“Something to help relax you.”
“Please,” she begged. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Kavalchuk paused, clasping his hands behind his back. “You are being driven this morning to Minsk-2 airport. There will be a plane waiting to take you to Moscow.”
Everything was happening too quickly. Being taken to Moscow could only mean that the central KGB committee was determined to prove that she was a spy.
There had always been the slim possibility that she could be killed on this mission. Her trainers at Camp Peary had told her so. But she’d never fully entertained the idea. How arrogant she’d been to take for granted that, because she was young, and American, and unique, she would be valued. Soldiers younger than she had gone to war and not come back. She shook off Oksana’s hand from her shoulder.
