“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “I believe so. Dinner?”
“I would be happy to, but I would prefer your coming here,’ said Galich. “I’m less than comfortable in social situations since I came here a few years ago. I know you are with two others. I’ve seen them both and would prefer your company alone. I hope I am not offending you.”
“Not at all,” said Rostnikov.
“Eight o’clock?”
“Eight o’clock,” agreed Rostnikov. “Oh, by the way, General Krasnikov showed me the meteorite you had given him.”
Galich put down the vase and folded his hands in front of him.
“The meteorite,” he said softly. “Yes. An interesting specimen, but it pre-dates human history. It is human history in which I am interested. If you like, I can give you a similar meteorite. I have plenty. A memento of your visit to our community.”
“I would like that,” Rostnikov said. “I’ll pick it up this evening after dinner.”
“I look forward to it,” said Galich, hands still folded.
Rostnikov returned to the house on the square, took a cold shower since there was no other kind to take, changed clothes and made himself two sandwiches of hard cheese and coarse black bread he found in the kitchen. When Karpo knocked at the door of his room an hour later and handed Rostnikov his report, the inspector was about to begin his second sandwich. He glanced at the neatly printed, many-paged report and nodded. Then his gaze returned to the window. Rostnikov knew that Karpo had made a copy for his own files, his private files.
“Emil,” he said. “I would like you to take the reports on the case that I brought with me from Moscow. Get the local report from Famfanoff. Take them and your report from this morning along with the notes you will find on my bed later when I go out for dinner. See if you can find any discrepancies.”
“Discrepancies?”
“Items, pieces of information which do not coincide, perhaps something, something small that is in one report and not in the others,” Rostnikov explained.
“Yes, Inspector. You should know,” Karpo said as he watched Rostnikov looking out the window, “that someone has entered my room and read my notes. Whoever did it was quite experienced. They were placed back almost but not quite lined up with the pattern on my bed quilt.”
“The same is true of my reports, Emil,” Rostnikov said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Someone entered my room and read them.”
“Sokolov?” asked Karpo.
“I don’t think so,” said Rostnikov without looking up. “But it may have been.”
Karpo left, closing the door behind him.
About two hours later, Sokolov knocked at the door to the Inspector’s room. Rostnikov told him to come in and Sokolov entered finding Rostnikov on his chair by the window looking out.
“May I now read your reports, Comrade Rostnikov?” Sokolov asked coolly.
Rostnikov grunted and pointed at the bed without looking away from the window.
Sokolov picked up the reports and looked at them.
“These reports are by Inspector Karpo,” Sokolov said. “What about your reports?”
“Later,” Rostnikov said. “I’m busy now.”
“Busy?” said Sokolov, deciding that Rostnikov was making his job very easy. His investigation was sloppy, self-indulgent, meandering. He didn’t do his paperwork and instead of pulling together information he sat, apparently for hours, looking out the window at nothing. Perhaps Rostnikov was simply going mad. It was possible, but it was more likely that he was simply lazy.
“I took the liberty of interviewing Samsonov, Galich and a few others,” Sokolov said. “If you would like to go over notes with me …”
“Tomorrow,” said Rostnikov softly, not looking back.
“Well, we can discuss the investigation at dinner,” Sokolov tried.
“I’m having dinner with Galich,” Rostnikov said.
“I see,” said Sokolov, holding in his anger. He had done this kind of thing before and knew that if he were patient he would eventually be sitting across the table from this man, driving him into defensive corners, tearing into his actions, his loyalties, his very thoughts. Sokolov thought about this moment, picked up Karpo’s report and slowly left the room.
Rostnikov sat for four more hours. He had, with the exception of the time he took to walk around the room to keep his leg from going rigid and the hour he took to read Karpo’s reports before Sokolov came to his room, been at the window for almost six hours. He had been rewarded twice by the sight of the old janitor in the People’s Hall, Sergei Mirasnikov, who came to the window and looked directly up at Rostnikov. The sight of the inspector looking down at him had each time sent the old man staggering back into the Hall. When he worked up enough courage to move carefully to the window again and under cover of the curtain to look up, Mirasnikov was struck with terror. The inspector from Moscow was still there, still looking down. He would be there all the time. Mirasnikov shuddered and vowed not to look any more, not to imagine that man staring down at him, waiting, watching.
Sergei Mirasnikov decided that he needed something a bit strong to drink.
When Sasha Tkach returned to Petrovka after accompanying his wife and daughter home, there was a neatly typed message on his desk held down by the small rock he kept there for just such a purpose. The message instructed him to report immediately to the office of the Gray Wolfhound on the seventh floor.
Sasha was in no mood to report. He had barely brought himself under control after his attack on the youthful muggers. He remembered much of what happened rather vaguely.
He remembered Maya and the baby crying and Maya telling him to stop hitting the mugger who jabbered at him in some strange language. He remembered the little ice cream vendor, Boris, behind him telling someone, “That’s him. That’s him.”
He remembered someone in uniform taking the two muggers away while Maya, who should have been comforted, instead comforted Sasha. Someone in uniform drove Sasha and his family to their apartment and somewhere on the way Sasha began to pull himself together. By the time they were at the building, he had regained enough control to reassure himself that his wife and child were, as they appeared to be, unhurt.
“It’s all right,” Maya comforted him quietly while holding Pulcharia close to her breasts in the rocking car.
The driver kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and had the decency not to look at them in the rearview mirror.
“I thought he, they …” Sasha began.
“No,” Maya said with a smile. “They just frightened us a bit. I’m fine though I have a small headache. The baby is fine. Look at her. Look at us. I’m more worried about the way you are behaving.”
“I, too, am fine,” he said, taking his wife’s hand.
And so he had left Maya and the baby at the apartment and gone back in the car to Petrovka to prepare his report. The message on his desk might be about a new assignment. He had only recently been transferred from the Procurator’s Office to the MVD and wasn’t yet familiar with all the procedures. Perhaps his success at catching the muggers had earned him a choice assignment or, at least, a commendation or a letter of approval.
Zelach wasn’t at his desk but other investigators and a few uniformed policemen made phone calls, walked past with folders or sat preparing reports.
Sasha adjusted his tie, brushed back his hair, examined his face in the window of the office behind him to be sure he was not bruised, and headed for the stairway.
In the outer office, Pankov, the Wolfhound’s assistant, pointed to a chair, barely looking up from something he was writing. Tkach sat. Tkach listened to the sound of voices inside the office. He couldn’t make out the words but the deep, confident voice of Colonel Snitkonoy was unmistakable. He seemed to be arguing with someone who spoke very softly. After three or four minutes, the office door opened and Deputy Procurator Khabolov stepped out. A few beads of sweat dampened Khabolov’s very high forehead in spite of the coolness of the room and h
e looked at Tkach with triumph. The look did not surprise Tkach who met Khabolov’s eyes and held them till the older man strode away.
Khabolov had reason to dislike Sasha Tkach. Rostnikov and Tkach had caught the Deputy Procurator illegally confiscating black market video tapes and video tape machines for his private property and use. They could have turned him over to the KGB. Khabolov’s actions were, if the KGB wished, sufficient to earn a firing squad. Instead, they had made a deal with the Deputy Procurator. Tkach and Karpo were transferred to the MVD under Rostnikov. There was no doubt in Sasha’s mind that Khabolov would be very pleased to see the men who knew about his indiscretion moved even further away from his office.
“Investigator Tkach,” said Pankov as soon as Khabolov closed the other door behind him. “You may enter.”
Tkach adjusted his tie again, nodded to Pankov who still did not look up and went into the Wolfhound’s office.
“Close the door,” the Wolfhound said. He was standing behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him. He looked as if he were posing for the cover of Soviet Life. The medals on the chest of his brown uniform glistened in the path of light coming in from the west and the setting sun.
Tkach closed the door and stepped forward. The Wolfhound nodded at a large wooden chair with arms, across his massive polished desk. Tkach sat. The Wolfhound made Sasha nervous. Everything the man said and did seemed to take on such importance, as if his every word were being recorded for posterity. The Wolfhound never perspired, never looked as if he even needed to use the toilet or eat food.
“We live in very delicate times,” the Wolfhound said, fixing his clear gray eyes on the junior investigator.
Tkach was not sure if he was expected to respond. He elected to nod very, very slightly in agreement. The Wolfhound unclasped his hands and leaned forward over the desk. Another pose.
“We live in a world of diplomacy and compromise,” the Wolfhound said. “The Revolution has not fully ended, may not end for years, may not end, Tkach, in our lifetime or even that of our children, but we do not despair. Constant vigilance is essential. Our allies must be clasped to us with strength and support. Enemies must be given constant notice of determination. You understand this?”
“I understand,” said Tkach.
“You did a fine job today, a fine job,” said the Wolfhound.
“I’ll have a full report ready in less than an hour,” said Tkach, now sensing that something was wrong, but not sure how wrong. The Wolfhound’s words and furrowed brow suggested that nations were at stake.
“Of course,” said the Wolfhound. “Your report. What I’m really interested in is your return to the search for the missing dealer in stolen goods. What is his name?”
“Volovkatin,” Tkach supplied. “I’ll get back to that immediately.”
“And concentrate all of your effort on finding this enemy of the State,” Snitkonoy said, his voice rumbling with determination.
“I’ll devote my full attention to it with time out only to complete the report and attend the Procurator’s hearing on the two we apprehended today at the Yamarka shopping center.”
The Wolfhound stood up straight and walked to the window. He said nothing for almost a full minute and then turned to Tkach.
“There will be no hearing on the two young men you caught,” said the Wolfhound.
“No …?”
“The two young men are sons of high-ranking members of the Cuban Embassy,” Snitknonoy explained. “Their parents have been informed and it has been suggested that the two young men be sent back to Cuba.”
Tkach gripped the handles of the chair and tried to keep his jaw from tightening. He glared at the Wolfhound who did not meet his eyes.
“They attacked my wife,” Tkach said, angry at the small catch he heard in his voice. “My daughter could have been …”
“Yes,” said the Wolfhound, “But there are greater issues, greater consequences for the State. Individualism in this situation as in most is counterproductive.”
“I see,” said Tkach as the Colonel turned once again to face him. The Wolfhound had positioned himself with his back to the sun coming through the window. He was an outline, a rearlighted black specter. Five minutes earlier Tkach would have been impressed.
“Sometimes we must take a small step backward in order to take great strides forward in the future,” said the Wolfhound, and Tkach felt the urge to shout out, to tell him that he didn’t care about the State, the future, Soviet/Cuban relations. He cared about his family.
“There are some good things here,” Snitkonoy said, stepping out of the light to reveal his face and a paternal smile. “The Procurator’s Office has decided not to investigate certain irregularities in your handling of the situation though the Cuban Embassy has demanded an explanation. The Cubans must also live with diplomacy and reality.”
“Irregularities?” asked Tkach, feeling rage but speaking softly.
“There are some reasonable questions,” said the Wolfhound. “Why were your wife and daughter at the site of an undercover investigation? Why did you beat the two suspects to the point that they had to be examined by a physician?”
“They were going to rape my wife,” Tkach exploded.
“Inspector,” the Wolfhound said firmly, resonantly. “You will control yourself. There is no reason to believe they were going to sexually address your wife. They have done nothing of the kind before. And the young Cubans claim that they offered no resistance and you continued to beat them in spite of their cooperation.”
That, at least, Tkach thought, is partly correct. He sat silently.
“So,” said the Wolfhound, confident that he had the situation under control again. “The Procurator’s Office has agreed to forget the irregularities, though a notation will be made in your file. We, in turn, will not file a report.”
“So there is no case,” said Tkach. “We will act as if nothing happened and hope that the Cubans send those two home.”
“I’m sure the Cubans will administer punishment or issue consequences,” said the Colonel.
“I’m sure,” said Tkach. “Now, if I may be excused I would like to get back to the investigation of the buyer of stolen goods.”
“Yes,” said Snitknonoy returning to his desk. “We must all get back to work. I have a talk to give at the Likhachov Automobile Works, the Zil truck division. They have exceeded their half-year quotas.”
“I’m elated,” said Tkach, rising.
“So are we all, Comrade,” the Wolfhound said with a touch of warning in his voice. “So are we all. Tread softly and you’ll break no eggs. You may leave.”
And Tkach left. He closed the office door behind him and without looking at Pankov strode across the outer office and into the hall, being careful not to slam the door behind him.
He stood still in the hall outside the Wolfhound’s office for almost half a minute. An older woman he vaguely recognized from the records office strode by him. She wore a dark suit and glasses and looked at him with motherly concern. He would have none of it and made it clear from his look. She walked on.
When Tkach felt that he was capable of moving without striking the nearest window or door with his fists, he headed for the stairway. His first thought as he walked down the stairs was that he needed to talk to Porfiry Petrovich. He would know what to do, how to deal with the Wolfhound, how to find a way to punish the Cubans, but Rostnikov was in Siberia and there was no knowing when he would be back. Sasha would have to deal with this alone and, he was beginning to realize, he would have to deal with it by putting the day behind him and going on with his work.
NINE
“HE’S NOT THERE,” SERGEI MIRASNIKOV shouted, removing his glasses. “Thank God. He’s not watching me anymore.”
Liana Mirasnikov shook her head and went on eating her bread in the next room.
Her husband’s voice had echoed across the meeting room of the People’s Hall in which she spent little time and through the door to their ro
om where she sat. With each passing year, Liana grew more brittle, more cold, dreading the long winters of ice which came so gray and close together. She had begun to grow angry at the brief summer, talking to it, accusing it of teasing her with its brevity, of telling her that she would experience few more of such interludes before she joined her ancestors.
“Why do you keep going to the window?” she said when he came back into their room and closed the door. “Just stay away from the window.”
“I can’t,” he said, anxiously looking at her. “I know he is there, looking. I don’t want to go to the window but I can’t help it. He knows I can’t help it.”
Sergei paced the room and in spite of or because of his fear he seemed younger than he had for years. Worry seemed to agree with him, at least physically.
“Just so the other one doesn’t come back, the ghost,” she said, popping the last crumb of bread in her mouth and looking around the room and at the frosted window before crossing herself. “It will be hard enough to go over there and serve their meals. I think I’ll just put out the food and stay away till they’re finished.”
“What does he want from me?” Mirasnikov muttered, ignoring her words.
“Possibly the truth,” she said.
“Do you know what might happen to us if I told him?”
“I know,” she said. “Don’t tell him.”
Sergei straightened out as best he could and, as firmly as he could, said, “I won’t.”
And with that he strode back to the door and opened it.
“Where are you going?” Liana called.
“To see if he is back at the window, just to see, to peek. I’ll just be a second. Less than a second.”
She heard his footsteps stride quickly across the hall, felt the draft from the big room because he had not closed the door behind him, and she started to get up so she would have an early start preparing dinner for the visitors.
A Cold Red Sunrise Page 12