“But Shmuel Prensky is dead,” said Rostnikov.
“Quite dead,” said the general. “Now leave and tell no fairy tales. Leave before I decide that your final moment of audacity is simple stupidity.”
Rostnikov went to the door, feeling the old eyes on him, went out and walked past the secretary, who did not look up. Outside, in the green corridor, Drozhkin stood waiting.
“What did he say? What did he want?” the colonel said.
“It had nothing to do with you,” said Rostnikov, moving forward in the general direction of the stairway. “I’m permitted to say no more.”
Drozhkin’s teeth came together tightly, and he strode in front of Rostnikov, led the way out of the Center, and stepped back at the front lobby without letting his eyes meet the detective’s.
Rostnikov, in turn, did not glance back but crossed the lobby as a quartet of men flowed around him. He went out the door and into the square where he continued to control himself. He wanted to let himself shake, wanted some slackness to ease the mask into which he had set his face, but he dared not, feared he was being watched.
His mind insisted on the fleeting thought that the Soviet nation was run by ancient men like the colonel, the general, by the Chernenkos. That the old eventually died and the young became the old. Only when he had gone down the stairs of the Dzerzhinsky metro station across the square on Kirov Street did he allow his facial muscles to loosen a bit, his shoulders to drop slightly. He had survived, was alive, had not been ushered into the depths of Lubyanka. He was alive and would have dinner that evening, if a hit-and-run driver did not appear, with his wife and son.
Rostnikov would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. In Moscow that was the only way it could be.
EPILOGUE
The world changed rapidly for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov that morning. When he returned to his office, he discovered that Assistant Procurator Khabolov no longer wanted to see him. In fact, the central operator made it quite clear that Assistant Procurator Khabolov did not want to see him ever again for any reason. It was Zelach who told Rostnikov the rumor that Khabolov was packing his things, that he was being transferred. The rumor was that he was going back to his former service as a security officer, but this time at a telephone factory near Leningrad.
In the course of that hour, after discovering that he was going to live at least for a while, Rostnikov further discovered that:
— Emil Karpo was going to have the surgery and that Sarah’s cousin Alex would do it in his office.
— That the car thief named Marina would not have a public trial and, therefore, Tkach’s indiscretion would not be part of the record.
— That Anna Timofeyeva was in Petrovka and headed for the file room.
Rostnikov intercepted Anna on the stairway and led her to his office where he explained that the pursuit of the old man named Shmuel Prensky was over, that Shmuel Prensky was dead. Something in her shrewd eyes made it clear that she recognized that more existed to the tale, but she accepted it with a nod, shared tea with Rostnikov, and excused herself after saying, “Were you a fool again, Porfiry Petrovich?”
“I was a fool,” he said, sighing. “But I survive. A very important man told me today that survival is the most important thing there is. What do you think?”
“Survival isn’t enough,” she said. “There has to be meaning with it or we are just animals.”
When she had gone, Rostnikov examined his few case files, all minor cases. He ran his finger along the scratch on his desk, took the object from his desk that he had placed there the night before, and left Petrovka, telling the scowling Zelach to take messages.
A half hour later he knocked at the door to the apartment of Sofiya Savitskaya. She opened it, and he could see that she was once again alone. He handed her the candlestick.
“The man who killed your father is dead,” he said. “He confessed and then was accidentally run over. He was an old enemy, half mad. It had something to do with a childhood disagreement back in the village where they were born.”
He didn’t step into the small apartment, though he could smell some sweet food being cooked within. The woman clutched the candlestick, and Rostnikov reached into his pocket for an envelope.
“The photograph,” he said, handing this to her. “All of the men in the picture are dead.”
He waited for her to say something, but no words came from her. She looked at him as if she were still waiting for him to speak, as if he had been silent. He wondered how much she had understood and how mad all of this had made her. He hoped that the candlestick would once again be dormant in her humid little apartment. Before she could close the door, he turned and went down the hall.
When he got back to his apartment, neither Sarah nor Josef was there, but the phone was ringing. At first he considered letting it ring, ignoring it, but he knew he could not.
“Rostnikov,” he grunted.
“This is Major Malekov of the militia,” came the flat voice. “I am to inform you that as of tomorrow you are to take up duties on the investigative staff of Colonel Snitkonoy on special assignment.”
“I assume, then, that you have just so informed me,” said Rostnikov. “Unless you wish to repeat what you have just said.”
“I simply want your acknowledgment, Comrade Rostnikov,” the major said.
“You have it, major,” he said, and hung up the phone.
And so, he thought, I am to be exiled to the Gray Wolfhound. It could be worse, much worse, but it could also be much better. He made himself an American-style sandwich with canned mackerel and read two chapters from the McBain book he had been savoring. Carella was puzzled by an ax murderer, but he would find him. Isola would be saved again. It was reassuring.
It was some time before six when the key turned in the door. Rostnikov rose, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and watched the door open. Josef, light, handsome, uniformed, looked over at his father and smiled, and Rostnikov smiled back, limping forward to give the young man a massive bear hug of love.
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