Red Chameleon by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
took a drink of vodka, pulled the long, wrapped package out of the waiterâs reach, and said something in English to the younger man, who finally let Vladimir go.
âForgive us,â said the old man in Russian, but a Russian had sounded old, unused, and tinged with another accent that sounded American. The old man displayed no look of regret on his face. His eyes, instead, were far away or long ago.
âI understand,â Vladimir said, resisting the urge to massage his feeling-deprived hand and wrist. He would not give the Americans the satisfaction. On the other hand, he decided not to insult them. Everyone knew Americans were mad, violent, but having behaved with violence, they often responded with guilty generosity. These were well-dressed men with money. A sizable tip might be in order.
Vladimir walked off slowly, with, he felt, dignity. He weaved his way around the tables, filled with people, most of whom were in military uniforms. He paused inside the door to the kitchen and looked back across the dining room at the two men at the table. Only at that point did Vladimir rub his wrist and look at it, pulling back the cuff of his frayed white shirt. Through the small window in the door, Vladimir could see that the old man had forgotten his fish and had laid his hand on the package Vladimir had been punished for almost touching. The younger man ate, but he kept his eyes respectfully on the old man, who was saying something.
Misha Kvorin was smoking as he leaned against the wall behind Vladimir. The two were not exactly friends, though they had known each other for more than ten years. Misha had the sour, sagging face of a pike.
Misha, looking, as always, bored, pushed himself from the wall, pulled down his black jacket, and slouched toward the door to look over Vladimirâs shoulder across the room.
âThe two at eighteen,â Vladimir said. âThe old one and the mean-looking one. You seeâyou see that thing wrapped on the table?â
âI see,â Misha said with a little cough.
âWhat do you think it is?â
âA package,â Misha said, turning away.
âI tried to move it out of the way, and the younger one grabbed my wrist. I had to almost twist his arm off to make him let go.â
âSo?â said Misha, stepping aside so another waiter, almost as old as the old man at the table, could get past and out the door with a tray of zakuski.
âSo,â Vladimir said, âwe should tell the police when they leave.â
Misha gave a small and not amused laugh. âYou want to go to the police? Who goes to the police, about anything? What do the police do? And this, over this? A package a foreigner wonât let you touch? A package he puts right out on the table in plain sight?â
âButââ
âWhat do you think is in it? A shotgun?â Misha laughed, searching for his cigarettes. âDrugs? The severed limb of a Politburo member?â
âAt least we should tell Comrade Tukanin,â Vladimir tried again. Comrade Tukanin was the party organizer for the kitchen workers. He had the reputation of being more eager than any other group leader in the massive hotel. Thatâs what he would do after the Americans were gone. He would make out a report to Tukanin. Maybe it would lead to the Americans being questioned by the police, made to feel uncomfortable or frightened. And who knows, maybe the two Americans did have something in that package they shouldnât have had.
Vladimir brushed past Misha, who gave him a look that made it clear Misha thought Vladimir was a pain in the face.
As it turned out, Vladimir got a ruble from the Americans and decided that filling out a report might delay his vacation or result in his being called back early to discuss his suspicions. Deep down he knew he had never really intended to file a complaint. Grumbling was one thing, action quite another.
And so Vladimir Kuznetsov never did find
âForgive us,â said the old man in Russian, but a Russian had sounded old, unused, and tinged with another accent that sounded American. The old man displayed no look of regret on his face. His eyes, instead, were far away or long ago.
âI understand,â Vladimir said, resisting the urge to massage his feeling-deprived hand and wrist. He would not give the Americans the satisfaction. On the other hand, he decided not to insult them. Everyone knew Americans were mad, violent, but having behaved with violence, they often responded with guilty generosity. These were well-dressed men with money. A sizable tip might be in order.
Vladimir walked off slowly, with, he felt, dignity. He weaved his way around the tables, filled with people, most of whom were in military uniforms. He paused inside the door to the kitchen and looked back across the dining room at the two men at the table. Only at that point did Vladimir rub his wrist and look at it, pulling back the cuff of his frayed white shirt. Through the small window in the door, Vladimir could see that the old man had forgotten his fish and had laid his hand on the package Vladimir had been punished for almost touching. The younger man ate, but he kept his eyes respectfully on the old man, who was saying something.
Misha Kvorin was smoking as he leaned against the wall behind Vladimir. The two were not exactly friends, though they had known each other for more than ten years. Misha had the sour, sagging face of a pike.
Misha, looking, as always, bored, pushed himself from the wall, pulled down his black jacket, and slouched toward the door to look over Vladimirâs shoulder across the room.
âThe two at eighteen,â Vladimir said. âThe old one and the mean-looking one. You seeâyou see that thing wrapped on the table?â
âI see,â Misha said with a little cough.
âWhat do you think it is?â
âA package,â Misha said, turning away.
âI tried to move it out of the way, and the younger one grabbed my wrist. I had to almost twist his arm off to make him let go.â
âSo?â said Misha, stepping aside so another waiter, almost as old as the old man at the table, could get past and out the door with a tray of zakuski.
âSo,â Vladimir said, âwe should tell the police when they leave.â
Misha gave a small and not amused laugh. âYou want to go to the police? Who goes to the police, about anything? What do the police do? And this, over this? A package a foreigner wonât let you touch? A package he puts right out on the table in plain sight?â
âButââ
âWhat do you think is in it? A shotgun?â Misha laughed, searching for his cigarettes. âDrugs? The severed limb of a Politburo member?â
âAt least we should tell Comrade Tukanin,â Vladimir tried again. Comrade Tukanin was the party organizer for the kitchen workers. He had the reputation of being more eager than any other group leader in the massive hotel. Thatâs what he would do after the Americans were gone. He would make out a report to Tukanin. Maybe it would lead to the Americans being questioned by the police, made to feel uncomfortable or frightened. And who knows, maybe the two Americans did have something in that package they shouldnât have had.
Vladimir brushed past Misha, who gave him a look that made it clear Misha thought Vladimir was a pain in the face.
As it turned out, Vladimir got a ruble from the Americans and decided that filling out a report might delay his vacation or result in his being called back early to discuss his suspicions. Deep down he knew he had never really intended to file a complaint. Grumbling was one thing, action quite another.
And so Vladimir Kuznetsov never did find