As tears go by

// 14 Moscow

Studenikin used a code and an electronic card to open the doors. There was none around, only the echo of their shoes. The huge premises were deserted at that time of the night. It was like to walk in a National Museum after-hours or in a Station concourse after midnight. Sergei counted at least ten electronic doors, five lifts. Two long corridors followed. He had already lost his bearings. Perhaps Studenikin made a bigger trip to confuse and overawe him. What an asshole. What he was thinking, that he was a gopnik na kortax na crabe - a poor guy doing a crab in court, a loser with his heels on the ground to avoid sitting on the cold ground like in a prison? Anyway, he kept deadpan. No way to be angry with a fat pen-pusher. They stopped in front of a metal door. This time the Studenikin didn't use his electric key. He buzzed a simple electric switch and waited. The door unlocked itself with a powered click-clack. Studenikin pushed the heavy door and let Sergei in. He closed the door back. Sergei wasn't surprised to find himself in an office from the Forties, Stalin's years. He stepped onto the squeaky wooden floor. He eyed a prolonged but narrow yellowish room with a high ceiling; there was a window at the end covered by a double mustard-coloured curtain. He counted three old lined-up wooden desks in a row, and glass-panned cabinets against the wall. Three funny armchairs, and a couple of stuffed animals over the cabinets completed the furniture. Studenikin walked Sergei to the last desk, the nearest to the window. On the wall, the picture of the actual President of Russia and bygones heroes like Jukums Vacietis and Ephraim Sklyansky, founders of the GRU. Captain Studenikin pointed out the desk covered by stacks of papers, files, dossiers, notebooks, microfiches and two wooden boxes. "Here are the special ops archive of komandir."

Sergei flinched. All that dossiers reminded him of the manuscripts of the Bol'saja sovetskaja enciklopedija, published relentlessly from 1926.

"Everything analogue no digital files?" He asked feigning surprise.

Studenikin shook his head and pursed his lips. "Komandir's ops records are all here. A fire, and all will disappear in ashes."

"Arson?"

"You said so."

"Going through all these papers will take ages. Listen, I just need a name."

"A name?"

"I'm looking for a woman who served in Chechnya, under his command."

Studenikin stared at him and shook his head in disbelief. He looked a bit annoyed. He was no good to conceal his micro-expressions. "I am sorry, major. I never worked for him. I just monitor what pops up on my computer. Distress calls and email of a restrict number of Intelligence officer working abroad. I spent all my time there and I cannot speak to anyone about my work. All I can get you is coffee for your long night of study."

Sergei felt the anger boiling his blood, but his face was deadpan as usual. "Listen, I have just a few hours to ID her. I cannot spend all the night reading old stories of cloak and dagger. Listen, there must be someone able to help me."

"As I told you, I sit all day and night along in that small office."

Sergei stared at him and said in a cold voice. "I can have you dispatched to Kamchatka in a snap of fingers. Cold air, long walks in the snow fully armed, lots of push-ups and runs. Real life of a soldier. Healthy. You need to exercise, by the way." The naval officer paled. Sergei sighed and shook slowly his head, always staring at him in the eyes. "You must know someone who knew very well this komandir of yours. Find out."

Studenikin shrugged and grunted.

"Da. I can make a phone call to my precursor. He had been here thirty years. I am sure he knew the komandir. He was a legend. At this hour of night he will be very annoyed."

"I don't care. Call him. If he complains, patch me through. He'll understand." Dibernardo moved the chair and sat comfy. "I'll give you half an hour, tops," told him, tapping his hand on the desk.

Studenikin nodded and doubled back. Dibernardo opened the first folder as Studenikin walked out.

Half an hour later Studenikin walked back and stopped in front of Dibernardo. Sergei waited some seconds to acknowledge him. Then he looked up from his reading and stared at him intently.

"Shoot."

"My precursor told me that when the komandir was here in Moscow, he always wanted the same man to drive him around. He gave me his name."

Sergei nodded. "Attaboy. This is all I wanted. Let's call him."

Studenikin shuffled his feet.

"What?"

"Everyone knows that man is a bit... old style. They call him the Cossack."

"What's his name?"

"Stenka Razin, like the rebel and the song... My grandpa used to sing it to me. Razin doesn't have a mobile. Neither a land line. He is drunk most of the time. He is an excellent driver. My precursor told me Razin his an old Komandir's acquaintance. Since Afghanistan Soviet war. He was in Chechnya too. A couple of tours."

Sergei nodded. "We have the same men in our departments. They never retire. Don't tell me where he is. I think I have figured out. Show me to the carpool."