Читать книгу Marilyn Monroe’s Russian Resurrection - Dmitrii Taganov - Страница 1

Being late

I was waiting for this man for over half an hour. I’ve been sitting by the window in a half-empty café, looking at the yellowing autumn trees, deep-blue skies, eying with great affection my new olive motorbike Harley. That was a wonderful Indian summer in Moscow, Russia, that’s called “Women’s summer” here, the last warm and dry good days. So I did not miss a day without my bike, before getting for next half a year, until late in the spring, into my old dusty jeep.

It was quite strange that this man was late the very first day. He asked me to meet him, fixed himself this time of a day and did not turn up. That was my new client, though probably a client. Because I did not say OK yesterday, because the phone call is not enough; moreover he could not state anything clear and comprehensible enough over the phone, and I did not understand his problem. I’ve just returned to Moscow from northern woods, after two-week vacation with my fishing gear and mushroom basket, so I was eager to get back to hard work. That’s why I wasn’t too choosy as usual, filtering out banal or plainly criminal proposals, and agreed to meet him in this café.

I earn my bread as a private detective, that’s quite a new profession in post-Communist Russia, and I specialize in corporate conflicts. Those are frauds, abuses, thefts, and similar dirt and rows in large corporations that recently went private. Too big money and resulting greed is their common problem, not yet restrained after decades of Communist rule and morale. Though, it always goes with blood, murders, abductions, and similar pus. But money they are craving for, and ready to cut throats each other, bring them at the end nothing but misery, and that happens before my eyes every month. However, the man who called me over the phone yesterday was not of that sort: he was associated with politics and, as I could guess, with big politics ahead of coming elections to Russian parliament Duma. That was something quite new for me, and though I warned him of my area of expertise and complete ignorance of current post-Communist politics, the man insisted, and I decided to see him.

My glass of juice was empty, so I looked at my watch and ordered double portion of ice-cream. Anyway, all my clients happen to live under such a stress that could be late not just half an hour, or forget all about appointment, but probably might also wind up in the hospital with nervous breakdown, so they need some mercy. “Hell with that,” I decided, “I’ll wait some more!”

The waiter did not yet bring my ice-cream as the cell-phone squeaked in my pocket. I recognized his voice at once.

“Nicolas? Sokolov? You hear?”

“I hear you, yes. Speak louder!”

“It’s Fomin speaking. Too noisy here! Listen, I won’t come to you, I cannot, emergency’s here. Do you hear me?”

I told him I heard him all right. His voice was trembling, breath coming in gasps. I heard also noise in the phone: voices, knocks, raps.

“Nicolas, I’m sorry! You know there is a dead body beside me! Hey, you hear me? Dead body of employee found just this morning. Police is here, lots of them. I can’t come over to you.”

“I understand, and don’t you worry, I’ll see you some other time. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, today! You should come here! Right now! You hear me?”

I was startled: never did I go to any crime scene with a dead body, not yet having seen the client, or figure out what my job might be.

“Come over to you now? Serious? Just to see some corpse?”

“Yes, now, while the body is still here! Can’t you? Please.”

“What should I unearth for you over there?”

“The cause of his death. It’s very important to us!”

“To whom?”

“To the leaders of our party. Please.”

“OK, I’m coming.”

I wrote down the address. That was inside the central Bulvarnoe ring, half an hour by bike, the headquarters of their party: Communist party, or more accurately, one of them. There were several just in Moscow, all of them inside Bulvarnoe ring neighboring Kremlin, the tiny hairs of once powerful Communist party of Soviet Union. I left the café and hopped over my Harley. As I pulled from the parking lot I felt a pleasant tickle inside of me, and I knew what it meant: coming days won’t be dull for me.