The Tsarina's Mask Read online

  That, at least, time had not changed.

  Taking a guess as to the direction to turn, he took the eastward fork and found himself driving past behemoth resorts—some with bulbous rooflines reminiscent of New Moscow’s false Saint Basil’s Cathedral—and all blazing with light as if they did not feel safe in their mountain surroundings. In daylight, hotel rooms would look out over the river and the mountains, but at night the drawn curtains apparently helped keep the frightening darkness at bay. Five minutes later, the resorts faded behind him and he found himself in an area that looked vaguely familiar.

  Low, stone buildings stood back from a river that was known to flood in spring thaws. Chimneys uncoiled bluish smoke that rose halfway to heaven and then spread across the valley. A few of the structures bore signs with expensive-sounding restaurant names, when they looked like the homesteads he remembered from before. Others still stood amid low stone walls with livestock loafing in the cold night air.

  Kazakov sighed. He knew where he was now. He could spot a tribal ghetto a mile away. The original people of the valley had been locked away in a small enclave while the Russian well-to-do chipped at ghetto edges and bought up the rest of the valley. He kept going and found a cluster of small stone buildings close by the river and pulled over to the side of the road.

  When he climbed out, all was silence except for the mutter of water and ice. Beyond the western peaks, a glow said where the moon had disappeared. He inhaled the cold night air and eased his shoulders. At least he felt whole and healed and ready to do what needed to be done.

  His small valise in hand, he crunched down the side of the road until he spotted the long-remembered sign: Guesthouse. That was all it said. No reason to provide a fancy name to stand out when you were the only guesthouse in a small town.

  He let himself through the cunningly-wrought stone wall by way of a wooden gate that squeaked in the night. A neatly shoveled flagstone walkway cut between four-foot snowbanks around the side of the house to a bright blue painted door under a single bare lightbulb.

  Kazakov knocked once and listened to the stillness, soon broken from within the house by a hollow thump and then the quick thump-thump-thump of footfall.

  The blue door pulled open revealing a crone of a woman with thick gray hair pulled into two loose braids; a nightdress and tattered felt robe were pulled around her wasted waist and sagging breasts.

  “Yes?” She blinked owl eyes up at him from a rosy-cheeked face still very much as he remembered.

  “Ayim Beshimov? Is it you?” He looked her up and down and it had to be, though there were ten years and countless lost pounds masking the diminutive woman he remembered. “It is Alexander Kazakov. I phoned about a room and we talked about the old days when I brought my wife to stay.”

  The owl expression wavered into something more akin to discomfort. “Yes. Yes, the detective. I remember now. Come in. Come in. Wood burns too quickly these days.” She stepped aside to allow him to step past into the same immaculately scrubbed hallway he remembered.

  Behind him, Ayim Beshimov clicked off the outside light and turned to face him. The hallway’s stone and wood walls were scrubbed to shining. A single bulb swayed from a wire overhead, so light played across her face like a sea of expressions. Happy to see him? Sad?

  Something about her suggested afraid.

  He smiled at her. “When business brought me to Biysk again, I could not stay anywhere else but here.”

  Her wide gaze seemed to study him and then she nodded. “It is late. You must wish your room.” As he removed his boots, she stepped past him and led him down the hall. “You asked for the room overlooking the river, but it is no longer available. My daughter lives there now with her family.”

  She led him to a door, swung it open, and flicked on a light. Again, a single bulb hung from the ceiling of a ten-by-ten room. The comforting scent of burning wood came from a glowing fireplace against one wall. On top of the fireplace sat a kettle and warmth enveloped him. A single four-poster bed sat under the window set in the stone wall and a dresser sat against the unpainted wood wall beside the door. A clothing trunk was sandwiched between the foot of the bed and the door. Ayim Beshimov collected the kettle and poured hot water into a plain metal basin on top of the dresser.

  “You wash here. There is tea, here. The washroom is down the hall as you likely recall.” She motioned at a small wooden box above the dresser. “In the morning there is breakfast at seven thirty. I will see you then.”

  With that, she backed from the room, pulling the door shut behind her. He stood there, listening to the shuffle of her feet down the hall, the opening and closing of another door, and then silence enveloped him save for the sound of heat rushing up the metal chimney flue.

  Sighing about the old saying that you could never go home again, he set his valise on the bed and began to unpack. He had to remind himself that it had been many years since he had been here and many things had obviously changed for both the valley and Ayim Beshimov.

  He wasn’t sure why he felt sad at the lack of welcome.

  2

  At seven thirty the next morning, Kazakov was seated on a hard bench in the stone guesthouse kitchen with his back to the wall. A well-worn wooden table sat before him, one of three well-scrubbed tables in the room. A flattened pillow under his ass gave no comfort and the uneven stone wall gave no chance to easing the ache in his side.

  The room was warm and getting warmer as heat poured off the ancient clay oven in the corner and the metal tray on the top that held a kettle for water. Ayim Beshimov bustled about the room, her owl-eyed gaze avoiding him as she slapped down a bowl of noodles and broth and a large mug of weak tea. A plate with a generous eight-inch wedge of flatbread was the closest approximation of anything he usually ate for breakfast. Clearly, things had changed at the guesthouse.

  His meal settled before him, Ayim Beshimov stood before him with her hands on her hips, clearly waiting.

  Obediently he picked up a large spoon and sampled the broth. Surprisingly good with the warmth of chicken and ginger. He slurped up a noodle and nodded. “Good.”

  She nodded “of course” and went back to her bustle when the guesthouse door pushed open to admit a thin young woman with the same wide eyes as Ayim Beshimov. She had thick, dark hair that must flow down her back, but which was modestly braided and coiled at the back of her neck. She wore a plain gray, woolen work shirt buttoned up the front to her chin and a set of stout canvas trousers. Surprisingly, her feet were bare, and peeking out from her trouser legs were long, refined feet with demurely-painted, pink toenails.

  She went to the older woman and spoke quietly in a dialect Kazakov didn’t know. Ayim Beshimov responded and the younger woman nodded and turned to face Kazakov.

  “So you’re the detective they send when an old woman is killed.” It was a statement, not a question, and clearly left her with the worst of impressions.

  Kazakov couldn’t help it: he shrugged, though a shrug was the response of liars and cowards and he preferred to think that he was neither. “I’m the one here, yes.”

  The woman poured herself a cup of tea and settled behind a separate table, but her gaze clearly assessed him. What did she see?

  Old man? Gone to fat? Tired with age the way he slumped at the table?

  Kazakov sat a little straighter and sucked in his gut, not sure why he bothered. “I’ve known your mother a long time. I came here years ago with my ex-wife. I was pleased to be able to return.”

  The woman simply sipped her tea. “Not mother. Aunt as you Russians would define it. My mother would never come down out of the mountains to—this.”

  Her lips curled and a disdainful glance trailed around the kitchen. He wondered why Ayim Beshimov had described their relationship differently and why she put up with the insults.

  “Well, Ayim Beshimov has always been the best of hostesses. I enjoyed my time here very much.” He spooned up more of the broth and finished the noodles, then tore off a p
iece of the flatbread and dipped it in the remaining liquid. It was chewy ambrosia in his mouth.

  “What do you plan to do to catch the killer?” the young woman asked.

  “I have no idea. Ask questions of those who knew her. Learn who her friends and enemies were.”

  Harrumphing, the young woman slumped back against the wooden wall and crossed her arms over her chest. She said something indecipherable to her aunt.

  Ayim Beshimov turned to face them. “I think. I think we must be polite. See if he tries, at least.”

  Kazakov raised a brow at them. “Why wouldn’t I try? My job is to find justice for the dead.”

  Again, the young woman shook her head and would not meet his gaze.

  “My niece has lost the skill of smiling at those she does not understand,” Ayim Beshimov said as she cleared Kazakov’s plates from the table.

  “No. I’ve lost patience with these mu'dak Russians who do not give a damn about helping us.” The young woman’s jaw was set in a hard line. So was her mouth, which was a shame, for it detracted from the beauty she was—the same beauty he could see in his hostess if he looked beyond the wrinkles and the careworn expression.

  It was a complaint that often remained unsaid but vibrated in the room when he interviewed one of the Kyrgyz or Uzbek Ferganese citizens. It was like acrid smoke in the room that caught in his chest and those who he spoke to. As a result, often it was as if they spoke different languages and, though they might hear the same words, they understood very different things.

  “If you knew me, I hope that you would say something different,” Kazakov said quietly. “Perhaps you will reassess me after I have done my job here.”

  The woman harrumphed again and said something to Ayim Beshimov. The old woman filled a bowl with noodles and broth and brought it to her. The younger woman’s black glare held him as if it was all she could do to eat in the same room as him. When she was done, she stood and slammed out of the room.

  Ayim Beshimov shook her head. “I am sorry. It has been—difficult here. Aisha works at the White Hill Resort. She has not felt well-treated.”

  “And why is that?” He nodded at her to join him at the table.

  Ayim Beshimov shook her head but poured herself a cup of tea and settled heavily at the table Aisha had vacated. “They give her poor shifts. They steal her tips and then the Russian men make passes at her and the management become angry when she resists. Truly, she is a good woman. She works hard to support her son—my nephew.”

  “Her son?”

  “Young Taalay. He is ten years old and was named after his father.” She sighed.

  “What is it?” he asked, keeping his voice down. It was as if the two of them existed in a quiet place with only the music of the fire in the chimney around them.

  “Taalay, her husband, though he was not as lucky as his name. He disappeared a year ago out herding in the mountains. His goats were found wandering, the herd much depleted by wolves.”

  “I’m sorry. It was a strong marriage?”

  “As strong as these times make any marriage.” She shook her head and looked troubled.

  He considered how to use this moment of accord to his advantage. “Still, I am sorry. No son should be without a father.” It was an unlucky happenstance.

  “Tell me,” he said softly. “You have lived here a long time. The woman who was killed. You knew her?”

  Owl eyes above the rim of her cup, Ayim Beshimov nodded. Her gnarled, white knuckles shook as she set the cup down.

  “It was Bermet Aytmatov. She was a healer. She was from a village farther up the valley but had moved down here as a young woman. She still traveled in the mountains, though. In the summer she had a garden and grew medicinal herbs and the best tomatoes, sweet and rich. She said it was a special fertilizer that she used that kept her plants happy. We used to laugh and say it was young Russian tourists she lured to her house like your Baba Yaga legend. Their blood and bones made good soil to walk on.” She met his gaze and color flooded up her face. “I apologize. I suppose it was ill-said.”

  She looked as if she awaited his ire. Instead, he sighed.

  “I suppose it was earned. How did Bermet Aytmatov die?”

  Ayim Beshimov shook her head. “We do not know. She was found dead on a trail not far from her home village.” She closed her eyes. “I did not see, but I hear things. Her neighbor found her. It was not—good. Then a Russian tourist came by and accused her neighbor. He was arrested. There is much anger, for Bermet was held in high regard amongst our people.”

  “And the neighbor?”

  “Where do you think? Still in jail.”

  Her head was bowed and the sudden opening of the door broke the spell of the silence. A ten-year-old boy pushed inside, black-haired like his mother but without her wide eyes. Instead the youngster had a serious gaze under a head of floppy hair. His considered gaze appeared to take in the world and understand what he saw. He glanced in Kazakov’s direction and immediately went to Ayim Beshimov.

  The lad spoke to Ayim Beshimov softly in his own language as if he did not wish Kazakov to hear.

  “I’m fine, Taalay. We were just talking and the talk brought up memories. Now come sit down and I will bring you breakfast. This is Detektiv Kazakov from New Moscow.” She pushed herself up and went to the pot on the oven, ladled a bowl of noodles and broth, and brought it to the boy. All the while Taalay eyed Kazakov as if assessing what he saw.

  “You are very like your mother,” Kazakov said.

  Taalay shook his head. “Mama says I am like my father.” He thought a moment. “You catch criminals.”

  Ayim Beshimov took dough from a bowl and patted it flat in her hands before reaching into the top of the oven to affix the bread to the clay oven wall.

  Kazakov inclined his head. The odor of baking bread filled the room. “I try.”

  “There are bad men in Biysk. You must catch them.” Taalay used a spoon to begin sucking up his breakfast. Kazakov finished his tea and stood as Ayim Beshimov brought the flatbread out of the oven and gave it to the boy.

  “I will see you both this evening, I hope. Thank you for your information.” He bowed his head and stepped out the kitchen door to the hall. He went back to his room to recover his greatcoat, hat, and gloves and, from in his valise, his weapon. He strapped on his holster and replaced his suit jacket and then hauled on his coat and gloves.

  When he left the room, he found Taalay waiting for him. “You are a detective. Do you catch killers?”

  “When I can,” he said and stepped past the boy toward the door.

  “There is a killer in the valley. There have been many deaths.”

  Kazakov turned back to him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Old Bermet Aytmatov, she’s not the first. A bunch of the elders have died.”

  “Elders die, Taalay. They are old.”

  The lad shook his head. “You sound just like Grandmother. She doesn’t want to believe. But Mama knows. She does.”

  The boy’s finality wasn’t a surprise. Children lived in a world of black and white—like make-believe. “And what does your mama know, Taalay?”

  He looked solemnly up at Kazakov as if trying to decide. Then he shook his head again. “Many things. Not to believe in Russian men—even detectives.”

  He turned and scuttled down the hall and into the room that Kazakov had been expecting to stay in.

  Stranger and stranger, but the sentiment of distrust was not unknown to Kazakov. In New Moscow he was one of the few detectives who could have a conversation in the old city and have a hope of gaining the truth. He’d used his friendship with the Medical Examiner, Khalil Khan, one of the few Kyrgyz who had found a place in Russian establishment, albeit a tenuous one, and he had also helped bring the killers of a favored Kyrgyz son to justice. That brought credibility with a people for whom credibility of the police department was in short supply.

  In New Moscow.

  Here in the mountains was
clearly another story.

  He followed the hall to the front doorway, but his boots were nowhere to be found. Finally, he followed his gut and checked outside the door. Bright sunlight flared in his eyes, instantly blinding him. Cold withered away any warmth in his exposed skin. He scanned the snowbanks and there they were—half-buried in the blue-black shadow of the house and half frozen to the ground.

  Sighing, he pulled them loose, brought them back into the house. The leather was hard, the fur lining almost brittle. Lesson learned: if it was important, leave nothing of his outside his room. He pulled the boots on and his toes were instantly frozen, but it could not be helped. His toes would warm soon enough in the Perseus. Gloves pulled on and coat buttoned, he stepped outside.

  Cold sucked the breath out of him and he pulled his hat on, flaps down over his ears. Then he traversed the yard between snowbanks and reached the road.

  Thankfully, the Perseus was where he had left it and apparently unharmed.

  Unknowingly, he had driven right past the new Biysk police station last night. It sat sandwiched between a small wood-and-glass resort hotel that must have been one of the oldest in the valley and a grand behemoth of a new resort full of glass and steel beams. In the clear morning sunlight over the icy mountain peaks, the first showed signs of hard wear in the weathering of the siding and the collapsing structure of the tall fences that divided the hotel property from that of the police station. The new hotel gleamed in the morning sunlight.

  He pulled into the police station parking lot that was marked with a small, hard to spot sign that read Biysk Public Safety Building. He could imagine the town fathers demanding that signage and those words because surely a Russian Resort could not have crime. At least that was the image they were determined to present. Which perhaps explained the need to bring in a detective from elsewhere in the face of a murder.

  The building was a concrete block structure with wood window sills and wooden pillars flanking the main door as if that could soften the bleak exterior. Dark windows stared blankly out at the parking lot. Not exactly a place to welcome visitors.