“It would not be inexpensive. As a guess… oh, five thousand euros or so,” the lieutenant speculated as they walked up the street.
“And who would have that much money to throw around?”
“A Muscovite criminal… Mishka, as you well know, there are hundreds who could afford it, and Rasputin wasn’t the most popular of men… and I have a new name, Suvorov, Klementi Ivan’ch.”
“Who is he?”
“I do not know. It is a new name for me, but Klosov acted as though I ought to have known it well. Strange that I do not,” Provalov thought aloud.
“It happens. I’ve had wise guys turn up from nowhere, too. So, check him out?”
“Yes, I will run the name. Evidently he, too, is former KGB.”
“There are a lot of them around,” Reilly agreed, steering his friend into a new hotel’s bar.
“What will you do when CIA is broken up?” Provalov asked.
“Laugh,” the FBI agent promised.
The city of St. Petersburg was known to some as the Venice of the North for the rivers and canals that cut through it, though the climate, especially in winter, could hardly have been more different. And it was in one of those rivers that the next clue appeared.
A citizen had spotted it on his way to work in the morning, and, seeing a militiaman at the next corner, he’d walked that way and pointed, and the policeman had walked back, and looked over the iron railing at the space designated by the passing citizen.
It wasn’t much to see, but it only took a second for the cop to know what it was and what it would mean. Not garbage, not a dead animal, but the top of a human head, with blond or light brown hair. A suicide or a murder, something for the local cops to investigate. The militiaman walked to the nearest phone to make his call to headquarters, and in thirty minutes a car showed up, followed in short order by a black van. By this time, the militiaman on his beat had smoked two cigarettes in the crisp morning air, occasionally looking down into the water to make sure that the object was still there. The arriving men were detectives from the city’s homicide bureau. The van that had followed them had a pair of people called technicians, though they had really been trained in the city’s public-works department, which meant water-and-sewer workers, though they were paid by the local militia. These two men took a look over the rail, which was enough to tell them that recovering the body would be physically difficult but routine. A ladder was set up, and the junior man, dressed in waterproof coveralls and heavy rubber gauntlets, climbed down and grabbed the submerged collar, while his partner observed and shot a few frames from his cheap camera and the three policemen on the scene observed and smoked from a few feet away. That’s when the first surprise happened.
The routine was to put a flexible collar on the body under the arms, like that used by a rescue helicopter, so that the body could be winched up. But when he worked to get the collar under the body, one of the arms wouldn’t move at all, and the worker struggled for several unpleasant minutes, working to get the stiff dead arm upward… and eventually found that it was handcuffed to another arm.
That revelation caused both detectives to toss their cigarettes into the water. It was probably not a suicide, since that form of death was generally not a team sport. The sewer rat— that was how they thought of their almost-police comrades— took another ten minutes before getting the hoist collar in place, then came up the ladder and started cranking the winch.
It was clear in a moment. Two men, not old ones, not badly dressed. They’d been dead for several days, judging by the distortion and disfigurement of their faces. The water had been cold, and that had slowed the growth and hunger of the bacteria that devoured most bodies, but water itself did things to bodies that were hard on the full stomach to gaze upon, and these two faces looked like… like Pokémon toys, one of the detectives thought, just like perverse and horrible Pokémon toys, like those that one of his kids lusted after. The two sewer rats loaded the bodies into body bags for transport to the morgue, where the examinations would take place. As yet, they knew nothing except that the bodies were indeed dead. There were no obviously missing body parts, and the general dishevelment of the bodies prevented their seeing anything like a bullet or knife wound. For the moment, they had what Americans would call two John Does, one with blond or light brown hair, the other with what appeared to be reddish hair. From appearances, they’d been in the water for three or four days. And they’d probably died together, handcuffed as they were, unless one had murdered the other and then jumped to his own death, in which case one or both might have been homosexual, the more cynical of the two detectives thought. The beat cop was told to write up the proper reporting forms at his station, which, the militiaman thought, would be nice and warm. There was nothing like finding a corpse or two to make a cold day colder still.
The body-recovery team loaded the bags into their van for the drive to the morgue. The bags were not properly sealed because of the handcuffs, and they sat side by side on the floor of the van, perversely like the hands of lovers reaching out to each other in death… as they had in life? one of the detectives wondered aloud back in their car. His partner just growled at that one and continued his drive.
It was, agreeably, a slow day in the St. Petersburg morgue. The senior pathologist on duty, Dr. Aleksander Koniev, had been in his office reading a medical journal and well bored by the inactivity of the morning, when the call came in, a possible double homicide. Those were always interesting, and Koniev was a devotee of murder mysteries, most of them imported from Britain and America, which also made them a good way to polish up his language skills. He was waiting in the autopsy room when the bodies arrived, were transferred to gurneys at the loading ramp and rolled together into his room. It took a moment to see why the two gurneys were wheeled side by side.
“So,” the pathologist asked with a sardonic grin, “were they killed by the militia?”
“Not officially,” the senior detective replied, in the same emotional mode. He knew Koniev.
“Very well.” The physician switched on the tape recorder. “We have two male cadavers, still fully dressed. It is apparent that both have been immersed in water— where were they recovered?” he asked, looking up at the cops. They answered. “Immersed in fresh water in the Neva. On initial visual inspection, I would estimate three to four days’ immersion after death.” His gloved hands felt around one head, and the other. “Ah,” his voice said. “Both victims seem to have been shot. Both have what appear to be bullet holes in the center of the occipital region of both bodies. Initial impression is a small-caliber bullet hole in both victims. We’ll check that later. Yevgeniy,” he said, looking up again, this time at his own technician. “Remove the clothing and bag it for later inspection.
“Yes, Comrade Doctor.” The technician put out his cigarette and came forward with cutting tools.
“Both shot?” the junior detective asked.
“In the same place in both heads,” Koniev confirmed. “Oh, they were handcuffed after death, strangely enough. No immediately visible bruising on either wrist. Why do it afterwards?” the pathologist wondered.
“Keeps the bodies together,” the senior detective thought aloud— but why might that be important? he wondered to himself. The killer or killers had an overly developed sense of neatness? But he’d been investigating homicides long enough to know that you couldn’t fully explain all the crimes you solved, much less the ones you’d newly encountered.
“Well, they were both fit,” Koniev said next, as his technician got the last of their clothes off. “Hmm, what’s that?” He walked over and saw a tattoo on the left biceps of the blond one, then turned to see— “They both have the same tattoo.”
The senior detective came over to see, first thinking that maybe his partner had been right and there was a sexual element to this case, but—
“Spetsnaz, the red star and THUNDERbolt, these two were in Afghanistan. Anatoliy, while the doctor conducts his examination, let’s go through their clothing.”
This they did, and in half an hour determined that both had been well dressed in fairly expensive clothing, but in both cases entirely devoid of identification of any kind. That was hardly unusual in a situation like this, but cops, like everyone else, prefer the easy to the hard. No wallet, no identity papers, not a banknote, key chain, or tie tack. Well, they could trace them through the labels on the clothes, and nobody had cut their fingertips off, and so they could also use fingerprints to identify them. Whoever had done the double murder had been clever enough to deny the police some knowledge, but not clever enough to deny them everything.