Their eyes burn with hatred, leaving no doubt who they think is to blame for what happened. Fortunately, their hands, like mine, are cuffed behind their backs.
The van shudders to life and chugs off. It’s gone a short distance when one of the dealers spits at me. Then another. And another. Finally, the long-haired one rears back and kicks me in the ribs, inciting the others, who leap from the benches. I bull my way into a corner of the van, kicking wildly to keep them at bay. My heel catches one in the chest, driving him back into the others, but there are too many of them. A boot slams into my groin. A knee connects with my forehead. I howl, racked with pain, and crumple to the floor. They’re out of control now, shouting, stomping, spitting, calling me names.
I’m convinced I’m going to die when suddenly the van dives to a stop, sending the dealers tumbling forward in a tangled heap. The door opens, revealing the muzzles of two riot guns.
“Okay! That’s enough! Settle down” the sergeant shouts. He scans the group for a moment. “You,” he says, pointing his weapon at me.
“Me?” I ask weakly, wiping the blood that seeps from the corner of my mouth.
“Out. Move it.”
I extricate myself and crawl eagerly to the door. The cops help me to the ground and slam it shut. Then they hustle me around to the cab, shove me inside between them, and drive off.
“You okay?” the sergeant asks gruffly.
“Great. They damn near killed me.”
“There wasn’t any chance of that happening.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Thanks anyway.”
“Don’t thank us. It was Investigator Shevchenko’s idea. He figured they’d take it out on you. He said to let it go on just long enough to teach you a lesson.”
“Well, I’m a very fast learner.”
“Good,” the sergeant says with a malevolent sneer. “Your education’s just begun.”
10
I ’m making notes, but I’m in a cell in the bowels of 38 Petrovka, not a classroom. I’ve got plenty of material for a piece on the black market in medals. The crackdown will make it all the more interesting, assuming I get out of here to write it. Fortunately, Shevchenko decided not to put me in with the dealers, and I’ve got a cell all to myself. I’ve been cooling my heels in this dank, wretched-smelling pigpen for over four hours when the jailer delivers a cell mate.
Bald, bearded, and rotund, the poor fellow looks like a refugee from a monastery. He throws his coat on the wooden bench in disgust, looks the place over, and scowls at me. “So, what are you in for?”
“I got caught in a sweep of medal dealers.”
“Ah, a black marketeer.”
“No, I’m a free-lance journalist. I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You?”
“Exploitation of meat.”
“Spekulatsiya?"
“ Da, spekulatsiya. I bought beef in Smolensk at a very low price, and sold it in Moscow for a big markup.”
“And they arrested you? Sounds like you’re a smart butcher to me.”
“Tell them that.”
“I will.”
“Actually I’m an engineer.”
“An engineer? You sure don’t look like one,” I say in English, falling back into an old habit acquired during my years in the gulag. It was automatic with a new cell mate, a subtle way to expose informers, since most political prisoners spoke some English while most KGB plants were illiterate dullards who didn’t. We nailed several that way, until the warden caught on and imported English speakers to spy on us. We also spoke it so the guards wouldn’t understand. Sometimes we’d talk about the weather just to piss them off. “Where’d you get your degree?”
“Degrees,” the meat peddler replies in English, his voice ringing with defiance and pride. “Both from Moscow Polytechnic Institute.”
“A fine school.”
“Finest school,” he corrects, continuing in English. “Then the whole hell broke loose. One minute I am having career, and the next, nothing.”
“Defense cutbacks?”
“Yes, yes,
The van shudders to life and chugs off. It’s gone a short distance when one of the dealers spits at me. Then another. And another. Finally, the long-haired one rears back and kicks me in the ribs, inciting the others, who leap from the benches. I bull my way into a corner of the van, kicking wildly to keep them at bay. My heel catches one in the chest, driving him back into the others, but there are too many of them. A boot slams into my groin. A knee connects with my forehead. I howl, racked with pain, and crumple to the floor. They’re out of control now, shouting, stomping, spitting, calling me names.
I’m convinced I’m going to die when suddenly the van dives to a stop, sending the dealers tumbling forward in a tangled heap. The door opens, revealing the muzzles of two riot guns.
“Okay! That’s enough! Settle down” the sergeant shouts. He scans the group for a moment. “You,” he says, pointing his weapon at me.
“Me?” I ask weakly, wiping the blood that seeps from the corner of my mouth.
“Out. Move it.”
I extricate myself and crawl eagerly to the door. The cops help me to the ground and slam it shut. Then they hustle me around to the cab, shove me inside between them, and drive off.
“You okay?” the sergeant asks gruffly.
“Great. They damn near killed me.”
“There wasn’t any chance of that happening.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Thanks anyway.”
“Don’t thank us. It was Investigator Shevchenko’s idea. He figured they’d take it out on you. He said to let it go on just long enough to teach you a lesson.”
“Well, I’m a very fast learner.”
“Good,” the sergeant says with a malevolent sneer. “Your education’s just begun.”
10
I ’m making notes, but I’m in a cell in the bowels of 38 Petrovka, not a classroom. I’ve got plenty of material for a piece on the black market in medals. The crackdown will make it all the more interesting, assuming I get out of here to write it. Fortunately, Shevchenko decided not to put me in with the dealers, and I’ve got a cell all to myself. I’ve been cooling my heels in this dank, wretched-smelling pigpen for over four hours when the jailer delivers a cell mate.
Bald, bearded, and rotund, the poor fellow looks like a refugee from a monastery. He throws his coat on the wooden bench in disgust, looks the place over, and scowls at me. “So, what are you in for?”
“I got caught in a sweep of medal dealers.”
“Ah, a black marketeer.”
“No, I’m a free-lance journalist. I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You?”
“Exploitation of meat.”
“Spekulatsiya?"
“ Da, spekulatsiya. I bought beef in Smolensk at a very low price, and sold it in Moscow for a big markup.”
“And they arrested you? Sounds like you’re a smart butcher to me.”
“Tell them that.”
“I will.”
“Actually I’m an engineer.”
“An engineer? You sure don’t look like one,” I say in English, falling back into an old habit acquired during my years in the gulag. It was automatic with a new cell mate, a subtle way to expose informers, since most political prisoners spoke some English while most KGB plants were illiterate dullards who didn’t. We nailed several that way, until the warden caught on and imported English speakers to spy on us. We also spoke it so the guards wouldn’t understand. Sometimes we’d talk about the weather just to piss them off. “Where’d you get your degree?”
“Degrees,” the meat peddler replies in English, his voice ringing with defiance and pride. “Both from Moscow Polytechnic Institute.”
“A fine school.”
“Finest school,” he corrects, continuing in English. “Then the whole hell broke loose. One minute I am having career, and the next, nothing.”
“Defense cutbacks?”
“Yes, yes,
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