Red Chameleon by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online

enemies of the state before they steal one more vehicle essential for the security of our government,” Assistant Procurator Khabolov had told him. And now Tkach stood in front of a building that had once been a barn.
    Sasha Tkach, who had never owned a car and had seldom driven one, stepped through the side door next to the large corrugated and firmly closed steel sliding door and entered the shop.
    He found himself standing in front of a wooden counter in a small customer area. The counter was covered with small pieces of metal, some of it oily but much of it rusting into the wooden counter like ancient fossils. Beyond the counter was a small open space with a concrete floor. On the floor were various unidentifiable pieces of machinery of sizes ranging from that of a coffee cup to what looked like a truck engine. A metallic buzzing filled the ill-lighted space, vibrating up Sasha’s back and down his arms.
    â€œHello,” he shouted.
    The figure in a gray bulky one-piece work suit huddled over the piece of machinery on the floor paid no attention and continued to attack the mass of metal with a whirring tool that sent up sparks.
    Remember who you are supposed to be, Sasha told himself, and he shouted again, louder, pounding a fist on the counter. Small pieces of unembedded metal jiggled and danced around his fist, and the figure with the whirring machine turned to face him, eyes hidden behind goggles. The figure turned off the machine.
    â€œWhat?” said the man in a surly voice to the perspiring policeman.
    â€œI want to talk,” Sasha said.
    â€œTalk,” said the man without removing his goggles.
    â€œIt is confidential,” Sasha went on. “Your name was given to me by a friend who did not wish his name to be used.”
    The man stood up now and removed his goggles, letting them dangle around his neck. His face was grimy and his body huge and hulking.
    â€œA man?” he said, slowly getting to his feet. He walked to the counter to look at Sasha and placed the heavy electric tool on the counter with a thud.
    â€œA man you would know,” Sasha said, lowering his voice confidentially.
    â€œMy name is Nikolai Penushkin,” Sasha said, emphasizing the surname, which was that of a reasonably well-known member of the Politburo. “My father is … someone whose name I am sure you know.”
    The man’s face was dark, covered with grime. “Your father sent you to me?” the man said.
    â€œNo,” Sasha corrected slowly. “A friend sent me. A friend who thought you might be able to help me locate a car.”
    â€œA car?”
    â€œTo buy,” Sasha said.
    â€œYou want to buy a car?”
    â€œYes,” Sasha said, happy that some progress was being made. “A very good car. I can pay in rubles or even American dollars if necessary.”
    â€œI don’t sell cars,” the man said.
    â€œMy friend said that you might know someone who sold cars, very good cars,” Sasha pushed. The man was not gifted with great intelligence.
    â€œI know someone who sells cars,” the grimy giant agreed.
    â€œI would like a very fine car,” Sasha said slowly, as if talking to a child. “A Zil, a black Zil.”
    â€œI—I’ve never been close to a Zil,” he said. “Why are you coming to me? I have a little shop. I couldn’t even touch a Zil. You have important friends—”
    â€œAh,” said Sasha, now whispering. “But there are no Zils available. I heard that one was … missing and that you might know the person who found it and that the person who found it might be willing to part with it for the right price.”
    The big man studied Sasha’s face for a few seconds, and the policeman tried to look like a spoiled son of an influential father. He grinned into the huge dark face and was about to speak again when a massive paw shot out and grabbed his tie. Sasha felt himself being strangled