“Others do it. So, I do it too,” was the often-spoken excuse of those who lived near enough to the river to defile it.
It had grown worse with the fall of the Soviet Union and the chaos that had overrun the city. The police, in the days before the new democracy, would from time to time arrest people who spread filth in the waters. Now no one seemed to care.
There were those who said the river had taken on a new and not pleasant smell.
“It has the stink of freedom,” Lydia Tkach had said.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was the senior investigator in the Office of Special Investigation. This office had been started as a dumping ground for politically touchy cases and cases the MVD
and even State Security, the old KGB, wanted no part of because they promised nothing but failure and a threat to those who might pursue them.
Rostnikov and his staff had been brought to the Office of Special Investigation by the pompous Colonel Snitkonoy, the Gray Wolfhound, who was considered a fine figure of a fool on whom could be dumped disastrous cases without the possibility of furthering his ambition.
They had been wrong. When Rostnikov had been transferred from the Moscow Procurator’s Office after one confrontation too many with people in power-the KGB and the chief procurator himself-he had taken with him his small staff. The sensitive crimes that others had imposed upon the Wolfhound and his staff began to be brought to conclusions, and at one point the Office of Special Investigation had even stopped an attempted assassination of Mikhail Gorbachev, who was then president of the Soviet Union. There were those later who said that it would have been better had Rostnikov failed, but at the time it had brought grudg-ing respect for Snitkonoy and his men.
So successful was the office that the Gray Wolfhound was transferred and promoted to head the security service at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. He was a perfect choice in his neat, be-medaled uniform, a relic standing tall with flowing silver hair, an exhibit worthy of placement next to a Rublyov icon.
The Office of Special Investigation had recently been taken over by Igor Yaklovev. The Yak was about fifty, lean, with hair cut short and the bushiest eyebrows Porfiry Petrovich had ever seen, with the possible exception of Leonid Brezhnev. The Yak, a former KGB officer, was given to dark, uneventful suits and suspenders. His hair was receding and his glasses had thick lenses. He was ambitious, Rostnikov knew, and was using the office to further that ambition.
Information gathered in the course of investigations could and well might be used by the Yak to put pressure on those above him, or traded to them to aid his ascension of the ladder of political power.
But to give the man his due, Yaklovev had promoted Rostnikov, given him a free hand, and pledged his support if one or more of the varied criminal organizations and the confused state bureaucracy attempted to impede the performance of his duties. Up to now, the Yak had been as good as his word and had successfully bought the loyalty of Rostnikov and his staff.
The wake of the passing excursion boat, now about a half mile down the river, had lifted the corpse and set his right hand moving in what looked like a wave to a school of small fish below him.
The boat was on the northern bank of the meandering river, directly across from the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski Moskau. An elegant hotel built in 1898 and reopened in 1992 after a complete renovation by a German-Russian group, the hotel boasted 234 luxury rooms. Rostnikov knew that on the other side of the hotel was St. Basil’s Cathedral, Red Square, and the Kremlin.
Rostnikov shifted his weight as the young uniformed officer came back on deck and offered the detective a blue mug. Officer Druzhnin had a gray cup. Rostnikov took the cup, thanked the man who looked out at the corpse, and began to drink. The coffee was tepid and awful, but it was coffee.
As he drank, the two men watched the naked corpse.
“Are you married, Igor?”
“Yes.”
“Children?”
“Not yet.”
“You want children?”
“Yes, but we can’t afford even to feed ourselves. I haven’t been paid for two months. Fortunately, my wife works. She sells papers and sweets at the Kazan train station.”
Rostnikov could never quite get comfortable. He was a man of average size but built like the German tank that had crippled his left leg when he was a boy soldier. For almost half a century, Rostnikov had dragged the leg painfully, had listened to its complaints like those of an aged parent for whom one is responsible. Then, one day, the pain had gotten worse and a doctor he trusted, his wife Sarah’s cousin, Leon Moiseyevitch, had told him that the leg should go. Rostnikov had agreed with regret, and now he had a prosthesis that allowed him to walk almost normally. Rostnikov missed his withered leg and knew that Paulinin, the half-mad sci-entific technician whose laboratory was two levels below the Petrovka Police Headquarters, had kept that leg somewhere among the hundreds of specimens that cluttered his laboratory.
Rostnikov had sent for Paulinin. Paulinin would certainly grumble and complain. He didn’t like leaving his laboratory. If there was a corpse to be examined, he wanted it brought to him. If there was evidence to be pieced together, Paulinin wanted it laid out at his convenience among the retorts, burners, and tools, many of which were his own inventions.
Rostnikov, from the time he was a boy, had been an avid lifter of weights. He kept a set of barbells and a bench at home and from time to time entered park and district competitions, which he invariably won. Now that he was placed in the senior bracket of such competition, he won even more regularly and thus competed less.
“How did you get here, huh?” asked Rostnikov.
“Well, my father. .”
“No, Igor. I was talking to our floating friend.”
“He is dead,” said the young officer.
“If not, we are witnessing a miracle,” said Rostnikov. “I was told once by a Inuit shaman in Siberia that it is a comfort to the souls of the dead to talk to them before they are taken by the spirits.”
“You believe that?” asked Druzhnin. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business to question. .”
“No, that is fine,” said Rostnikov, taking another sip of the coffee. “I don’t believe either, but I find it helpful to speak to the dead even if they do not answer. If the Hindus are correct, our floating friend has already been reincarnated, perhaps as a very small ant in a forest where he will not know he had once been human and might never, in his life as an ant, see a human being.”
“Perhaps,” said Druzhnin, adjusting his cap and trying not to look directly at the chief inspector, who seemed, to give him the benefit of the doubt, a bit odd.
A group of four men was coming down the embankment not far from the boat.
“Forensics,” one of the men called to Rostnikov.
“I know,” said Rostnikov.
“We’ll pull in the body,” the man on the shore said. “Can you give us a hand?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “It stays where it is.”
The man onshore, who was no more than forty, looked at his colleagues, one of whom said something Rostnikov could not hear.
Then the man spoke again. “We have to do our job,” the man said.
“My name is Penzurov. We have met before.”
“I recognize you.”
“Porfiry Petrovich, we have to do our job,” Penzurov repeated.
“No, you do not,” said Rostnikov. “The job must be done. But you do not have to be the ones who do it. Would you like to come aboard and have some coffee?”
“We were sent to retrieve and examine the body,” Penzurov said in confusion.
“Then return to whoever sent you and inform them that Inspector Rostnikov of the Office of Special Investigation told you that your outstanding services would not be required.”
“Why?” asked the man.
“Because,” said Rostnikov. “And I mean no offense, you have a less than outstanding record of examination of bodies, crime scenes, and collected ev
idence. The responsibility is mine. Technician Paulinin of Petrovka will conduct the examination of the body.”
The four men conferred. Rostnikov sipped his coffee and looked across the river at the massive Hotel Baltschug Kempinski towering over the smaller, ancient decaying buildings and churches.
“I believe we have jurisdiction,” said the man as firmly as he could.
“I believe you do not,” said Rostnikov. “Do not try to pull the corpse in or I shall come ashore in a black mood and be forced to embarrass you into departure.”
“We shall report this immediately,” said the man.
“That is a very good idea,” said Rostnikov.
The four men made their way back up the embankment. One of the men, the oldest, slid and slipped on the dewy grass of late spring. No one helped him up. He scrambled to the top of the in-cline and looked down at his dirty hands before joining the others.
Rostnikov handed his empty mug to Officer Druzhnin, who said, “Would you like more?”
“No, thank you,” said Rostnikov.
The officer nodded and headed for the door to the cabin, the two mugs clinking together as he moved.
Rostnikov turned awkwardly to the bobbing corpse and said,
“What are you doing here? What happened to your clothes? Who are you?”
A small undulation raised the body slightly.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll talk to Paulinin,” said Rostnikov. “I’m comfortable talking to the dead, but he gets answers. Let us both be patient. It’s not a bad day. The sky is clear. There is a breeze and the river doesn’t smell as bad as it often does lately.”
Now two men appeared at the top of the embankment. Rostnikov turned again, giving his artificial leg a hitch.
The two men who stood looking down at the inspector and the floating corpse were an incongruous pair. One was tall, very pale, and dressed completely in black-shoes, socks, slacks, turtleneck sweater, and jacket. His dark, receding hair was brushed straight back. Rostnikov looked at Detective Emil Karpo who returned the look without emotion. Karpo was known as “the Vampire” or “the Tatar” by criminals and law-enforcement officers. Karpo had been a completely dedicated Communist who had not overlooked the political system’s many shortcomings but who believed that eventually the system would succeed. It was not Communism that was the problem but the men who seemed determined to corrupt it.
The sudden transition from corrupt Communism to corrupt democracy had been difficult for Karpo, but he had been helped through the change by Mathilde Verson, a redheaded part-time prostitute who had grown quite close to him. And then Mathilde had been killed in the crossfire between two Mafias. Karpo had survived by throwing himself into his work even more than was usual. In fact, Emil Karpo spent all of his waking hours relentlessly pursuing criminals from both the past and the present. Karpo’s small room was dominated by shelves filled with notebooks on past unsolved and solved crimes. The rest of the space in which he lived was little more than a cell, with a small dresser, cot, and closet.
Since he spent little, Karpo had money to buy the computer that sat on the desk in his room. The computer was devoted to storing Emil Karpo’s vast files and running cross-checks which might link anyone to any crime.
The man at his side, Paulinin, was shorter, disheveled, clad in a stained white laboratory coat, and decidedly uncomfortable. He seemed to be talking to himself.
Rostnikov waved for the two men to come down and join him.
Officer Druzhnin appeared on deck, looked at Rostnikov, who nodded, and let down a plank for the two men to board the small boat.
“Thank you for coming,” said Rostnikov to Paulinin. “I’m sorry to bring you out so early, but you are the only one I trust to give me a meaningful report about our floating friend.”
Paulinin grunted, adjusted his glasses, and stood at the rear of the boat next to Rostnikov, looking down at the dead man. Behind Paulinin, Karpo said, “He’s a member of the Tatar Mafia. The tattoo is theirs.”
“A start,” said Rostnikov. “Paulinin?”
“By the condition of the corpse, I would say he has been in the water less than a day, perhaps much less. My guess? He died last night. But. .”
Paulinin looked around, found a grappling pole, and awkwardly but carefully nudged the corpse toward the boat. He used the flat side of the pole to keep from damaging the bloating corpse.
“Hold this,” Paulinin said, handing the pole to Karpo, who took it and firmly pulled the body closer to the boat.
“We must turn him over,” said Paulinin.
“Officer Druzhnin, please,” said Rostnikov.
The young officer climbed over the rear railing, feet on a narrow platform near the water level and one hand on the railing. He reached down and tried to turn the naked corpse over on its back, but the man was too heavy and slippery. Karpo moved forward and joined the young officer. Together, they managed to turn the corpse. Druzhnin held the body awkwardly to keep it from turning facedown again.
Paulinin looked down at the corpse.
The dead man was thick necked and had a well-trimmed short beard. A dark hole burrowed into his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. He also had three dark spots in his hairy chest and stomach.
“Pull him up here, carefully,” said Paulinin.
Karpo and the young police officer tried to lift the waterlogged dead man into the boat.
“Careful,” said Paulinin. “No new bruises or cuts.”
The dead man easily weighed two hundred fifty pounds.
Rostnikov rose, turned, knelt on the wooden bench, and reached down for the dead man’s arm. The arm was cold and the flesh soft.
Rostnikov motioned for the police officer and Karpo to back away as he lifted the body. Rostnikov managed to grab the dead man under each arm. He took a deep breath and lifted the naked corpse from the water.
“Take his feet,” Rostnikov said.
Karpo and Druzhnin reached down for the corpse’s legs.
The three men lifted the dead man over the side of the boat and placed him, faceup, on the deck.
Paulinin knelt next to the dead man and leaned over to examine him.
Rostnikov knew better than to ask the scientist any questions.
He simply watched and waited.
“Yes,” said Paulinin, touching the man’s chest. “He is talking to me already. He will tell me much more in my laboratory. Porfiry Petrovich, I don’t see why I had to come here. I have work piling up back home.”
“I thought you might see something here that I have not seen,”
said Rostnikov, who was using a small soiled towel Druzhnin had handed him to wipe away some of the touch of death.
Paulinin sighed and adjusted his glasses. “I suggest you search the opposite shore,” he said. “An elusive combination of wake, flow, and current. I think the body came from over there.”
Rostnikov looked at where Paulinin was pointing.
“That is providing I am correct about the approximate time of death. I’ll be more specific later. Now, bring the corpse to my laboratory.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Karpo.
Chapter Two
As Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov talked to the nude, bloated corpse, Sasha Tkach woke to summer sunlight streaming through the window of his hotel room. The sun was painful and so was the construction noise outside, which was barely muted by the closed windows. Sasha had a hangover from the night before.
“Get up,” Elena said. She wore a blue dress with red stripes running down at an angle.
Sasha tried twice to sit up before he succeeded. Elena handed him a cup of coffee, which he took gratefully. He vaguely remembered coming back to the room and throwing his clothes on the floor till he was down to his undershorts. Elena, who had slept on the pull-out bed in the living room of the suite, had watched Sasha weave into the room at four in the morning. She had taken a look at him and realized that there would be no point in asking him any questions. And so h
e had barely made it to the bed, where he collapsed, felt a wave of nausea and dizziness, and was almost instantly asleep.
Now Elena stood over him, waiting as patiently as she could and drinking her own coffee.
Sasha needed a shave, and the hair he had slicked back the night before was a wild mess. There were circles of darkness under his red eyes and, all in all, he looked terrible.
“Tell me what happened,” Elena said. “I’ll write the report.”
“Thank you,” Sasha said, finishing his coffee. It helped his head a bit but gave him a slight taste of nausea.
Elena sat in a soft armchair near the window, put down her cup, and took a small tape recorder from her pocket. She placed the recorder on the table near her armchair and waited for Sasha to speak. Had he been thinking less of his head and of the events of the morning, Sasha might have noted that Elena wore a look of irritation that contained no sympathy for her partner.
“You checked the room for. .?” he began.
“There are no listening devices,” she said. “I have had a great deal of time to check carefully. You can speak. But I would not trust the phone.”
He nodded, blinked his eyes against the pain of the morning light, and began to speak as Elena turned on the recorder.
“I took a cab to a house, a private home with an iron gate, on Mira Prospekt beyond the Outer Ring Circle near the Botanical Garden. There were only a few cars parked in the driveway beyond the gate, which was opened for the cab by two big men who wore weapons under their jackets, after I showed the napkin with the address on it.
“I paid the cab driver, who tried to cheat me because he thought I was a Ukrainian. I haggled and paid more than I had to but less than he asked for. I got out of the cab, and the two armed men let the cab back out through the gate. The parked cars were expensive; there was even a Rolls-Royce. The door to the house opened as I walked toward it, and a slim, well-dressed blond man greeted me and let me pass.
“I entered the house, heard noises from somewhere inside. The blond man told me that I was a little late and led me to a door, which he opened, increasing the noise. We went down a flight of stairs and I found myself in a big, high-ceilinged room with a wire-fenced square in the middle surrounded by about forty people, all men, standing. Two dogs were inside the wire fence.
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