The Drozhin Tapes

Ilya Drozhin greatly disliked his job. He spent his days in the back office of the Ministry of Industry and Commerce, listening to surveillance tapes and wiretaps. Very seldom did Ilya find anything worth reporting to the Ministry. When he did, the tapes were confiscated, and he was left to start all over again. The only thing Ilya could say of his position was that they were generous enough to pay him enough to buy food and a pair of shoes.

This particular day appeared to start like any other. Ilya took two buses from his small apartment on Krasnokazarmennaya Street in Lefortovo District to Ilinka in Red Square. He bought an overpriced pack of cigarettes in the front lobby. Finally, he trudged his way into his tiny office. This time, however, he was greeted with an envelope taped to his door. Ilya was surprised, but didn’t think too much of it. Still, he was curious enough to inspect the envelope’s contents.

Ilya peeled the yellow envelope open and carefully read the note inside:

TO: DROZHIN, ILYA ROMANOVICH

COMRADE DROZHIN IS REQUESTED TO REPORT TO PETROVKA BUILDING AT 10:30

EFFECTIVE 10 JUNE, 1986 UNTIL OTHERWISE.

Of all the mediocre luck Ilya Drozhin could possibly have, this was the last thing he would expect. He, of all people, ending up in police custody? At the moment, he couldn’t recall any occasion where he had committed a crime. Then again, if he had, then the police would have come to him, rather than vice versa. He glanced at his wristwatch to check the time, it was 8:45. There was little chance of him being late if public transit could prove reliable. Ilya knew he wouldn’t be missed, they’d have someone else on the wiretaps no sooner than the moment he walked out the door.

Though he hadn’t felt anxious before, Ilya certainly did once he caught a taxi and began his journey to the Petrovka station. He was silent enough to make the cab driver feel uneasy. Not doing much more than staring blankly out the window, puffing away on a cigarette. Ilya paid a generous tip along with the fare once he reached his destination. He squared his shoulders, let out a ragged breath, and rang the bell at the door. A young officer answered, looking Ilya up and down. “Drozhin?” he asked, making a face of disinterest. “Indeed I am.” Ilya answered, “Ilya Romanovich Drozhin, from the Ministry of Commerce.” The officer opened the door and let him in.

At this particular moment, Ilya truly began to feel nervous. He fidgeted with the pack of matches in his hand as he walked through the hallway. There wasn’t much to Petrovka, really. A few chairs lined the wall. The front desk, where Procurator Belinskiy typically sat, was empty. All the doors were shut tightly, save for one where Ilya would be escorted to. He slowly made his way inside, where he was greeted by Procurator Belinskiy’s tall form.

The room was empty, save for a desk and chair. “Good morning, Comrade Drozhin.” Belinskiy said, gesturing for Ilya to sit. “I suppose it is a good morning, Comrade Belinskiy.” Ilya replied, taking his place in the old swivel chair. Belinskiy sat on top of the desk, propping his foot on his knee. The sole of his shoe had a hole in it.

“I appreciate you coming in today.” Belinskiy inspected his worn shoe.

“Of course. Though, if you please, why?” Ilya leaned over on the desk.

“Well, if you must know, we have hired you out to perform a special interrogation.”

Ilya was taken aback. He had foolishly thought that the police were interested in his own fabricated wrongdoings. The truth, it seemed, was much more. “Interrogation? On whom?” He leaned back in his chair, emitting a shrill squeak from the rusted hardware.

Belinskiy eased himself off of the desk. “You see, Drozhin,” he explained, “we have custody of a man who may possibly be involved in organized crime.” Ilya propped his elbows on the desk, listening intently. This was certainly an interesting development. More interesting than office gossip, at the very least. “And,” Belinskiy continued, “our wiretap operator is out, to a spa in Yalta.”

All this trouble, just to do the same thing as usual? Ilya was disinterested, but he knew better than to feel that way. “Alright then.” he said, “I’ll do the surveillance for you.” Belinskiy stood straight and folded his arms across his chest. “Of course you will.” he replied, “We called every administrative building in Moscow. The Ministry of Commerce was the only one who could spare a wiretap operator.” This wasn’t news to Ilya. He just needed to know what exactly he’d be doing and when.

Belinskiy made his way towards the door. “There is a tape recorder in the top drawer,” he explained, “everything you need is in the desk.” Ilya looked, and found exactly that. “Where do I hook this into the tap?” he asked, inspecting both the tape recorder and the wall. “This interrogation is strictly confidential, Drozhin.” Belinskiy said. “You’ll just turn the tapes in once everything is finished.” Ilya set the tape recorder on the desk. He had nothing else to do but wait. “Our suspect is Boris Olenka.” Belinskiy finished, closing the door behind him, “He will be here shortly.” Ilya was alone, for now.

The room was eerily quiet, much more than Ilya was certainly used to. He was accustomed to the constant clicks and squeals of tape recorders, rife with the sounds of idle chatter. There were no wires on the plain, beige walls, or stacks of tape reels. Only Ilya, a desk that was rather off center, and two chairs. Ilya’s eyes grew heavy, the silence and dim lighting making him somewhat sleepy. He could have easily taken a nap.

A sudden knocking on the door brought Ilya Drozhin out of his fatigue. “Yes? Yes, hello. Come in.” he straightened himself back up in his chair and beckoned whoever it might be inside. The same officer who had escorted Ilya in opened the door. He wasn’t alone. And the accompanying stranger must have been rather tall, as they cast a long shadow over the officer into the tiny room. “Alright Boris,” he said in a timid voice, “in here.” The young officer moved out of the way to let the looming figure in.

Ilya assumed Boris Olenka would be tall, based on his shadow alone, but he certainly underestimated it. Boris was easily over six feet tall, almost seven. His shoulders were wide and broad, and his face covered with a thick, dark beard. Even with his rugged appearance, he was dressed in a navy blue suit- albeit a very ill-fitting one. Ilya was quite sure Boris’ clothing would spilt at the seams if he moved just right. He also felt very convinced that Boris could easily crush him into dust. That was neither here nor there, of course.

Ilya offered Boris a seat. And Boris did indeed sit, the chair groaning underneath him. It was quiet for a moment, the two men looked each other up and down. “Let me turn this on here,” Ilya said, toying with the tape recorder to break the tension. Boris watched him carefully, somewhat amused by all this. “I tell you now,” he finally said in a deep, echoing voice, “I have nothing to offer you. I have committed no crime.” Ilya set the tape recorder back on the desk once he managed to turn it on. “Is that so?” he asked, “Then why are you here?”

“Because,” Boris explained, leaning over on the desk, causing it to tip over slightly, “people do not understand my way of living. I am a simple man, really.”

Having never met this man before, Ilya wouldn’t have known whether to believe anything Boris had to say or not. Of course, that wasn’t why he was here. All he had to do was record a statement, and go along on his way. “Alright then.” Ilya said, folding his hands on the desk, “You say you are innocent, so, I’ll let you explain why.”

Boris sat up straight and inhaled deeply. The chair underneath him let out another agonizing squeak. “Gladly,” he answered. “I shall tell you my story from the very beginning. By trade, I am no offender of the law. I am a fur trapper from Irkutsk.”