Hard Currency

Another rumble of thunder and more lightning made them pause.

“I hate this country,” said Shemenkov.

“I thought you wanted to stay here.”

“That was before Maria was killed. Now I hate this country.”

“What happened the night this person …?”

“Manuel’s son, Javier,” Shemenkov said. “We got into a fight. He was bothering Maria. She made him look like a fool. He was going to go after her with a knife. I stopped him. He tried to bite my nose. I broke his nose with my head. Į have a hard head.”

“An admirable asset,” said Rostnikov. “And he said he would kill Maria?”

“And me too.”

“What else?” asked Rostnikov.

“What else? Nothing else. Maria’s dead and they say I killed her. What else is there? I can’t talk any more; My throat is burning. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep.”

Rostnikov nodded.

Then Shemenkov said, “These people, who knows? It’s possible.”

Rostnikov got up, unsure of whether Shemenkov was talking about Cubans in general or the Santería in particular. Rostnikov’s leg felt as if it had been filled with water and a weak charge of electricity was being sent through it. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and not terribly unpleasant, which led him to the conclusion that the Cuban weather might actually be soothing to his leg.

“Then,” said Rostnikov, who began moving toward the door, “stay awake and stay alive.”

“Look at me,” said Shemenkov, rising. “I’m a shell, a worthless shell. They won’t let me live. You don’t know these Cubans. They won’t let me live. Even if some crazy African killed Maria, they won’t care. They are going to punish Russia for abandoning them. They are going to punish Russia by killing me and throwing my body into the sea for the sharks. They are going to spit on my body. They are going to laugh at us. And I,” he said, pointing to his chest, “I am going to … I am a dead man. I am worthless.”

As he spoke Shemenkov had turned around completely to face the departing detective. He almost fell from the awkwardness of his stiff-necked movement.

“I did not kill Maria,” he said. “I did not-” Another crack of lightning broke through the ocean that was falling upon Havana.

Rostnikov called the guard to let him out. As he stepped into the corridor he heard Shemenkov shuffle toward his cot in the corner of the room. Rostnikov made his way down the corridor to Major Sanchez’s office, where he knocked. He heard “Entra” and stepped in.

Sanchez was seated behind his desk drinking from a steaming cup. He pointed to another cup across from him on the desk and said, “Coffee, Porfiry Petrovich?”

Rostnikov nodded and sat. He took the coffee in his hands and enjoyed the warmth of the cup against his palms. The room was pleasantly air-conditioned, and though it was morning and he had slept remarkably well, the drum of rain, the hum of the air conditioner, and the warmth of the coffee made Rostnikov drowsy.

“I like your coffee and your rain,” said Rostnikov.

“Gracias. My father had a theory,” said Sanchez, looking into his coffee cup. “If a Cuban is home when the rains come, he feels protected. It is like being in a castle with a great moat. No one will enter. It is a time for peace and security. All are equally trapped and protected by it. It is a time for coffee and love. Is it the same with snow and cold? Is that why Russians are willing to live in Siberia?”

“Your father was a philosopher,” said Rostnikov, finishing his coffee.

“Stonemason,” said Sanchez.

“You heard what I told Shemenkov, what he told me?”

Sanchez simply smiled.

“And?” Rostnikov went on.

“I think this pursuit of a vengeful Santería is a waste of time and energy,” said Sanchez. “Everyone who commits a crime blames it on the Catholics or the Santería. More coffee?”

Rostnikov held out his cup, and Sanchez refilled it from the pot behind him on the table.

“But it is my time and energy,” said Rostnikov.

“Your time and energy,” Sanchez agreed. “You have the services of myself and my staff in your fruitless enterprise.”

“I will call upon them if I need them,” said Rostnikov.

“Let me try another way, Inspector,” said Sanchez. “Havana is divided into ninety-three zones of the Provincial Court. Each zone has its own court division with professional judges. Each zone has its own prosecutors, attorneys, and others affiliated with the integral Vigilance and Protection System, the SUVP. Each zone has representatives of the National Revolutionary Police. Things are done quickly within this system. Do you understand?”

“If a person is arrested for a crime, it is almost a certainty that the system you have described will swiftly convict him,” said Rostnikov.

“It was the same in your country before it was stricken with chaos,” Sanchez went on. “Not only is it unpopular for anyone within the system to represent the accused, it is practically impossible. I have been at trials in which the attorney assigned to the defendant attacked his client with greater zeal than the prosecutor. In this way he let the court know that he was not being disloyal.”

“I appreciate your telling me such things.”

Sanchez shrugged and played with a pencil in front of him.

“I am trying to save you time and effort. I will speak even more frankly if you do not mind,” said Sanchez.

“By all means.”

Sanchez rose, put his hands behind his back, and strode to the window. There was something of the Gray Wolfhound in the move, a certain calculation for effect that alerted Rostnikov.

“There are dangers in Havana as there are in any city,” said Sanchez. “If you remain within the protection of my office, we will see to it that such dangers are avoided. I can offer no such guarantees if you choose to … you understand?”

“Perfectly,” said Rostnikov. “Consider yourself absolved.”

“Unfortunately,” sighed Sanchez, “absolution is not within your power. It is my own superiors to whom I would have to answer should something happen to you or your charming assistant.”

Rostnikov nodded.

“I understand,” said Rostnikov, rising with remarkably little protest from his leg. “The rain seems to be stopping.”

“And its protection fading,” said Sanchez. “Cuidado, amigo.”

“I will be careful,” said Rostnikov, moving toward the door. “A request.”

“Yes.”

“I would like Igor Shemenkov to survive at least until I have completed my investigation, however pointless that investigation might be.”

“He has been moved to a cell with a video camera. He will be watched constantly. There will be no more suicide attempts.”

“Gracias,” said Rostnikov.

“Nyeh zah shto,” replied Major Sanchez.

“Right there,” Angelica Carerra said. She pointed to a wooden-legged tan lounge chair that Elena Timofeyeva thought would be better suited to the waiting room of a medical clinic than an apartment.

Sheets of rain slapped against the windows and roof of the Carerra apartment. The place smelled of must and mildew.

Elena examined the lounge chair. Its recently cleaned pillows still showed the stains of whatever had been used to remove the blood of Maria Fernandez.

“We didn’t want to keep it,” said Carlos Carerra, “but what could we do? Even if we could afford new furniture, where could we buy it?”