12. Confession of a Contract Killer
Kryukov returned to the winter hut acting strangely. He reeked of vodka. We loaded the meat, and Kryukov asked me to go with him to unload it and help him weigh it, so they wouldn’t cheat him on the payment. That evening we set off back. The two of us rode in the car, again crawling slowly along the taiga road. I was at the wheel. A truck followed behind us. A deer burst out right onto the road in front of us.
“I always hate knocking over a deer,” Kryukov said. After a short silence, he looked at me, pulled an opened bottle of vodka from inside his coat, bit off the cap, and took several long gulps straight from the neck. Then he caught his breath.
Give me your word you won’t blab.
What’s the matter, what happened?
No, first give me your word.
All right, I give you my word I won’t blab.
Do you know Rudnitsky?
Why are you asking about him?
First tell me: do you know him or not?
I’ve run into him.
I’ve known him ten years; we worked together at the bus depot. He’s a big hunting fan, too, and I’ve been hunting with him a few times. About five years ago he moved over to the KGB, and I haven’t seen him since. But yesterday we met. As soon as I came out of the taiga to arrange for a truck, my wife told me I absolutely had to call an old friend I’d worked with at the bus depot, and she gave me a phone number. I didn’t know that number. I called. A voice on the line said:
“Duty officer speaking. Who do you need?”
I don’t know; I was given this number and told to call.
“What is your name?”
“Kryukov, Vasily,” I answered.
“Oh, just a moment. I’ve been filled in; don’t hang up,” the duty officer said.
About ten seconds later there was a click in the receiver, and a joyful voice yelled:
“Oh, Vasya, my dear, it’s Tolya Rudnitsky. Are you calling from home?”
From home.
Do you have time?
Yes.
“Don’t go anywhere; I’ll send a car for you right now. We need to talk.”
About forty minutes later a car came for me, and in another half hour I found myself at the KGB. Rudnitsky took me into his office—maybe not his, I don’t know—took a bottle of five-star Armenian cognac out of a cabinet. I haven’t tasted that stuff in ages. He set out little shot glasses, tossed a bar of chocolate on the table, brought out a small jar of black caviar, put out a couple of pieces of bread. “Well, Vasya, sit down, don’t be shy. Chase it with chocolate if you like, or make a caviar sandwich,” Rudnitsky said, and he poured the cognac, but for some reason into three glasses. We downed a shot each. Just then a third man appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, you’ve already started without me,” he said.
“This is my boss,” Rudnitsky said. His boss didn’t offer me his hand and didn’t give his name, just winked after the shot. We got to talking, remembered how we worked at the bus depot, how we hunted.
Then Rudnitsky suddenly asked:
“Do you know Perchatkin?”
“Of course I know him—look how many boars we’ve bagged together in the last two weeks.”
“Bagged, you say. Do you know who you’ve been bagging boars with?”
“What do you mean? Why are you talking about him?”
“Because you’re hunting with a CIA agent.”
At that his boss tossed about ten photographs in front of me. I picked one up; it’s a picture of you, and you can see you’re talking. Next to you is a short, round-faced man with a little mustache, about forty years old.
“Do you know who he’s standing with here? He’s a CIA agent, disguised as a diplomat. He was expelled from the USSR recently as a spy.”
“What’s his name?” I interrupted Kryukov.
Robert, I forgot the last name; something starting with “P.”
Pringle?
I think so.
“Go on,” I said to Kryukov.
I took a second photograph. Here you’re standing with some tall guy, a good half-head taller than you. You can’t see his face well, but you’re clearly visible.
“And here,” the boss explained, “Perchatkin is meeting with CIA agent Khatsan. He’s still working in Moscow; they haven’t expelled him yet.”
That one I remembered well: his last name is Khatsan. And the main thing—you’re also photographed with the spy Sharansky; you’re sitting together on a bench.
“You see who you’ve gotten mixed up with, what kind of company you keep,” the boss said.
Just then Rudnitsky left the office, leaving the two of us alone.
“That’s how things stand,” the boss went on. We poured ourselves another shot. The boss stood up, walked to the window, turned his back to me.
“Tell me, Vasya, do accidents happen often on hunts?”
Of course they do.
What kind?
Well, a bear might maul someone, or a hunter might get in the way of a boar; inexperienced hunters can also shoot each other. The boss fell silent, but he didn’t turn toward me, just kept standing with his back to me. Then, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own, he said: “Vasya, can you kill a man?”
What do you mean, kill a man? Kill him for what? I asked the boss. And he repeated:
“Can you kill a man?”
Depends on what for and how. If there’s a reason, maybe I could.
So you could?
“What are you harping on me for? I could or couldn’t—what business is it of yours?”
“Well, Vasya, I hope you’ve understood me: whom to kill and what for. I hope this conversation stays between us.” At that moment Rudnitsky came back in.
“Well, Vasily, it’s time to head home. The car’s already waiting at the exit. If you need help, just ask. You don’t have to be shy around us. And only those who know why they should be afraid are afraid of us.”
Kryukov pulled out the unfinished bottle of vodka again and said:
“After that cognac, I just keep drinking vodka nonstop. Oh, I feel so foul inside. I certainly don’t believe you’re a CIA agent. What kind of agent could you be? I’ve known you a long time, so I pity you. Go away somewhere. And if you’ve drawn their attention, they’ll rub you out. Who’s to say they haven’t offered this to someone else, not just me?”
Kryukov fell silent for a long time. Then he burst out:
“Who do they offer this to, the scoundrels. And that Rudnitsky, the KGB whore, who does he think he’s mixing me up with? Himself maybe? If I’d known earlier, I’d have taken him out myself on a hunt. I come from Old Believers, and they wiped out plenty of my relatives.”
Kryukov went back into the taiga alone. I couldn’t hunt. They were hunting me.
Related articles
- 11. The Hunt Summer flew by unnoticed, and autumn was already drawing to a close. It was November. During that time, my nerves were severely…
- 13. Recruitment 1979 was, in my opinion, the most fruitful year of my work. I wrote…