“Here,” said Galich through the scarf covering his mouth and face. He stopped and pointed.
It was his first word since they had left his house. Karpo looked at the man who was pointing at a slight ridge that looked no different to Karpo than dozens of others they had passed.
Galich led the way up the slight slope and motioned Karpo to move to his side. Karpo did so and found himself looking down at what appeared to be a road through the woods.
“Stream,” explained Galich. “Frozen solid. Luckily for us. If this were summer, we’d never find Kurmu. Much of this is a bog and there are ticks, insects whose bite can kill, wild animals who don’t have enough experience to fear men. The winter is safe, except for the cold.”
“And now?” Karpo said, the left side of his head throbbing.
“We wait. We sit on these rocks for a minute or two. We drink some of the tea I brought in my canteen. We walk around. He knows we’re here, probably knew it when we entered the taiga. If he means to come to us, he’ll show up soon.”
And so they drank, moved around and spoke very little. Karpo’s headache allowed him to ignore, even welcome the cold that clawed at his face. His body was surprisingly warm, even perspiring under the six layers of wool and fur that Galich had dressed him in, but his exposed face tingled electrically. Galich looked at him and gestured for Karpo to cover more of his face with the scarf he had been given. Karpo did so.
He was just getting up from a minute or so of sitting on the rock when Karpo saw the man. He was standing no more than two dozen yards away next to a cedar tree. The man was a motionless, dark, faceless figure in a parka.
“Wait,” Galich said as Karpo took a step toward the shaman. “He hasn’t made up his mind yet.”
“If he tries to run, I will have to stop him,” Karpo said, his eyes fixed on the man near the tree. “He’s an old man.”
Galich laughed.
“He’d be gone before you got five steps. No, we wait.”
And so they stood waiting, watching each other for perhaps five minutes. Suddenly the man in the parka waved, turned and was gone. Karpo stepped forward, each step sending a shock of agony through his head, but Galich held out his hand.
“He’ll be back. If he weren’t coming back he wouldn’t have waved. He would have simply disappeared.”
When Kurmu returned it was not to the base of the same cedar tree. This time Karpo turned to the frozen stream and saw the shaman standing still on the path of ice and snow looking up at the two Russians. The Evenk carried something slung over his shoulder. Karpo’s eyes found those of the shaman and only then did the Evenk move forward and up the slope to the rock where the two men stood.
The shaman’s bearded, craggy face turned first to Galich and then to Karpo. His eyes were narrow and dark. While looking directly at Karpo he spoke, his words a soft clattering, words running together.
Galich answered in what sounded to Karpo like a slow imitation of the old man.
“He says,” said Galich, “that he has something for your pain.”
“How does he know I am in pain?” Karpo asked.
“You really want me to ask him that?”
“No,” said Karpo.
The shaman reached into the sack over his shoulder and pulled something out, something that clacked and echoed in the gray forest. He looked at Karpo and then said something else.
“He wants to know,” said Galich, “if you would rather keep your pain. I think he said it is yours and he doesn’t know why you might want pain but he thinks you might.”
“What does he have?” Karpo said, the right side of his head welling in tempoed heat.
The shaman held out his mittened hand to Karpo showing what looked like a necklace of thick stones.
“It’s amber beads,” said Galich. “He wants you to put it around your neck.”
Karpo reached out, accepted the necklace and put it over the oversized hat and around his neck. The shaman nodded.
“Give him my thanks and tell him we would like him to come with us to Tumsk to talk to the inspector. Tell him Mirasnikov has been shot.”
“I’m not sure my Tunga is good enough for all that,” sighed Galich. “Remember I said you have to keep it simple. I’ll do what I can.”
But before Galich could speak, the old shaman chattered out what sounded to Karpo like one long word.
Galich answered even more briefly and turned to Karpo with a shake of his head and a smile.
“He said we should get started. He has to be very far from here by tonight. He knows about Mirasnikov.”
Karpo looked at the shaman who returned his unsmiling gaze. The eyes of the old man scanned Karpo’s face and came back to rest on his eyes.
Kurmu said something else and Galich said, “He says he sees the color of your pain. It’s very … something. I don’t understand. He says the color is surrounding your soul and you should let your soul breathe through.”
“He sees the color of my pain?”
“He’s a shaman, remember,” said Galich.
“And he’s a Soviet citizen,” Karpo reminded Galich.
“Is he?” Galich said with a deep laugh. “These people have ignored our history. Most of them never knew the Mongols had ever been through here.”
The shaman spoke again and Galich answered before turning to Karpo.
“He wants to know if you’re a Tartar?”
“No,” said Karpo reaching up unconsciously to touch the beads around his neck.
Kurmu spoke again.
“He says, good. Let’s go.”
Before they were down the small slope and into the forest again, Karpo had the sensation of bright, scorching yellow and knew that his headache was already beginning to fade away.
It was just before dawn when Sasha Tkach entered his apartment. Maya sat at the table near the window breastfeeding Pulcharia who turned her head toward the clack of the door.
“Is Lydia here?”
“No, she had to leave early. What happened?”
Sasha brushed back his hair and touched his face. His hair grew quickly though his beard was light. Nonetheless, he needed a shave.
“What happened?” he repeated her question, moving to the table, kissing his wife on the head and looking down at his daughter who had returned to her feeding.
Sasha opened his jacket and sat in the chair where he could watch his wife and daughter.
“We found the black market. We found Volovkatin,” he said. “We found him, brought him in, and the Deputy Procurator on duty sent a team to the apartment. And you know what they found?”
“No,” said Maya concerned about the strange smile on her husband’s face.
“Nothing. They found nothing,” he said. “Everything Zelach and I saw there was gone. Someone had cleaned out every piece of stolen property. There was no evidence.”
“But who … how?” she said softly, trying not to frighten Pulcharia who sucked away, her eyes partly closed.
“An old drunk,” said Sasha. “There was an old drunk there named Viktor when we took Volovkatin. He must have sobered up quickly and gotten help in cleaning out the apartment. Now I’ve got to go out and find the drunk. It’s a cycle. It never ends.”
He laughed, shook his head and glanced at the window. In profile, Maya thought her husband looked very strange and very tired.
“So they had to let this Volovkatin go?” she said gently.
“No,” laughed Tkach. “Kola the Truck and Yuri Glemp have already signed confessions. Zelach and I will testify to what we saw. The Procurator wants Volovkatin, claims he is a major fartsovschiki, black marketer. No little thing like missing evidence will get in the way of a conviction, particularly a conviction concerning economic crime. The Procurator wants to show the KGB that he is alert, swift. The Wolfhound will probably even get another medal.”
“So?” said Maya puzzled.
“So,” repeated Sasha. “You get attacked. I catch the hounds who did it and they get spa
nked and sent home to their parents. I catch a dealer in stolen goods who has probably never physically harmed anyone in his life and he’ll go to jail for years, without evidence. If the KGB gets involved he might even be shot.”
“How do you know he never physically harmed anyone?” she asked as the baby paused to catch her breath before continuing.
“Actually,” he said with a laugh, “I don’t know. He’s probably murdered hundreds of innocent people. He had a gun when we caught him. I was just trying to set up a contrast so I could feel even more put upon by the system.”
Maya laughed and Tkach felt better, much better. He even considered laughing but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
Mirasnikov moaned through the night, moaned and ranted, growing feverish, perspiring, going quiet and cool for brief periods and then burning with fever.
After three hours, Rostnikov had the old woman sit with her husband while he dressed, went out and made his way across the square and up the slope. He doubted if the killer would make another attempt on his life. It was possible, but the killer would have to be waiting up all night in the hope that Rostnikov would come out of the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity. In addition, it was much lighter out now that what passed for day in this part of Siberia was coming. The killer would find it much more difficult to hide.
Rostnikov stopped at Galich’s house and knocked at the door. There was no answer. He pounded mightily and the sound of his pounding vibrated through the village. Finally he heard movement inside and Famfanoff in his underwear opened the door.
“Comrade Inspector,” he said.
“Get dressed, go down to the People’s Hall of Justice and guard Sergei Mirasnikov,” said Rostnikov. “I’ve got to get the doctor.”
“What happened?” Famfanoff asked half asleep.
“Mirasnikov was shot last night,” Rostnikov said. “You heard nothing?”
“I … I was …” Famfanoff stammered, resisting the urge to scratch his stomach.
“Get dressed and get down to the People’s Hall,” Rostnikov said and closed the door.
Famfanoff cursed, turned and moved toward his small bedroom, wondering if he had lost his last chance to escape from the arctic circle. I was drunk, he thought, hurrying to his room to get into his badly wrinkled uniform. His wife had warned him but he hadn’t listened. Now it would be different.
“No more drink,” he said aloud to himself. “Tonight, right now you begin. No more and that’s final.”
But even as he spoke, deep within him Famfanoff knew it was a lie.
Ludmilla Samsonov answered the door when Rostnikov knocked. She was dressed in green, her hair pinned up on top of her head.
“Please come in,” she said. “We’ve been unable to get to sleep. Is Mirasnikov worse?”
“I am afraid he may be,” Rostnikov confirmed.
“And you?” she said examining his face with her large, moist brown eyes. “You look very tired. Let me get you some coffee. We have real coffee we save for special occasions.”
“Thank you,” he said, “but I would appreciate your telling your husband that I think he should come down and take a look at the old man.”
“I will,” she said, starting toward the rear of the small house and then pausing to look back and add, “I heard about your call to Moscow. I hope your wife will be well.”
“Thank you,” Rostnikov said, sinking back into the same chair he had sat in the last time he had been in the house.
“How long have you been married?” she asked.
“Twenty-nine years,” he said. “And you?”
“Lev and I have been married for almost two years,” she said.
“Then Karla was not your daughter?” he asked yawning and closing his eyes.
“Inspector,” she said with a small smile. “You must have known that.”
Rostnikov held up his hands in mock defeat.
“It’s difficult to stop being a policeman.”
“I loved the child very much,” Ludmilla said, her eyes growing more beautifully wet. Rostnikov regretted not having paused to shave before coming up the slope. “She was so … I’ll get your coffee and my husband.”
Rostnikov was dozing, probably even snoring when he felt the presence of someone in the room and came suddenly awake. Samsonov stood nearby, his coat on, his black bag in his hand. He looked tired. At his side stood his wife holding a cup and saucer. Rostnikov rose with a grunt and stepped forward to accept the cup of steaming coffee.
“I warned you,” said Samsonov. “He is an old man, conditions here are not the best even for a simple procedure such as I performed last night. Add to this that I’ve not worked with shoulder trauma in years.”
“No one blames you, doctor,” Rostnikov said, sipping the black, hot coffee, feeling both its liquid heat and caffeine surge through him.
“Is that right, Inspector? I am blamed for a great deal but I also hold others responsible for a great deal. What have you discovered?”
“About your daughter’s death? Very little. About Commissar Rutkin’s death, possibly quite a bit more. Perhaps when we find out about one we will find out about the other.”
He gulped down the last of the coffee, returned the cup and saucer to Ludmilla Samsonov and gave her a small smile before turning to her husband.
“Shall we go,” he said.
A moment later the doctor and the policeman stepped out the door and looked down the slope. The frantic figure of Famfanoff was rushing toward the People’s Hall, his flowing coat only partially buttoned, his hat perched precariously atop his head.
By the time Rostnikov and Samsonov reached the square, the navy vehicle had broken the silence of the morning by cranking to life. In moments, a sailor would drive around the corner of the weather station and start the morning ritual of clearing a path.
Samsonov entered the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity first. After the doctor entered the building, Rostnikov paused for an instant to look back around the town. In the window of his own room across the square he caught a glimpse of Sokolov who danced back out of sight. Rostnikov turned and entered the People’s Hall, closing the door firmly behind him.
Rostnikov followed the doctor across the wooden floor and into the room where Mirasnikov lay on his bed, his wife kneeling next to him. Famfanoff tried to rise to stand at attention.
“All is secure, Comrade,” Famfanoff announced.
“I had complete faith in you, Sergeant Famfanoff,” said Rostnikov as Samsonov moved to the bed, pulled a chair over, examined Mirasnikov’s face, eyes and wound and pulled a stethoscope out of his bag.
Liana Mirasnikov looked at her husband, the doctor and the two policemen for answers but they had none for the moment. She let out a wail of pain and frustration and Rostnikov wondered where the old woman got the energy for all this grief after being up all night. He suppressed a fleeting image of himself at the bedside of his wife Sarah, her head bandaged, a woman doctor with huge glasses hovering over her and clucking sadly, refusing to give Rostnikov attention, an answer.
Rostnikov met the old woman’s eyes and motioned with his hands for her to be calm.
It took Samsonov no more than three minutes to complete his examination and change the bandage on the old man’s shoulder. Mirasnikov groaned when his body was moved. He opened his eyes, looked around in fear and closed them again.
“Give him one of these now,” he told the old woman, handing her a bottle of capsules. “And another every two hours. Wake him if you must but give them to him.”
Samsonov got up and moved to the door. Famfanoff still stood at what he took to be attention. Rostnikov motioned for him to be seated and the policeman gratefully moved back to the chair.
In the assembly room with the door closed behind them, Samsonov took off his glasses, put them in a black leather case, placed the case in his pocket and told Rostnikov, “There is nothing to be done for him. The wound is infected. I’ve cleaned it, given him an ant
ibiotic. I suppose we can call in a helicopter and have him evacuated to the hospital in Igarka but I think he would die from the movement. He is a very old man.”
“I understand,” said Rostnikov.
“If you have grief in you, Inspector, give some of it to my Karla,” he said, weariness dulling the bitter edge he sought.
“I have and I will,” Rostnikov said. “I’ll not forget your daughter.”
Samsonov looked up suddenly, angrily, to search for irony in the policeman’s sympathy, but he could see none because there was none to be seen. Samsonov considered thanking the man but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not now, not yet. Words, looks were something but deeds were more important.
“We will see,” said Samsonov. “We will see.”
He turned from Rostnikov and hurried across the room, opening the door through which the sound of the navy plow came screeching. When he closed the door, the sound did not disappear but it was muffled, a little further away.
There was one more person to see before he could rest, Rostnikov thought. One more person. It was not quite together yet. He had a picture but he did not trust that picture. It needed some changes. It needed, among other things, the shaman for whom he had sent Karpo. It would be best if he could get some rest first, but there was no time. Sarah was alone in Moscow.
He buttoned his coat and went out to find General Vassily Krasnikov.
The killer returned to the window and looked out at the square, at the ever-pointing Ermak. Things had not gone well. The policeman was not dead and seemed to be even more eager to pursue his investigation as if he had some deadline, near as the next full turn of the clock.
Perhaps, thought the killer, the attempt to shoot Rostnikov had been a bit rash. Perhaps the man knew nothing. It would be best if he were gone but now was the time for retrenching, pulling in, putting on the mask. Just a few more days and it wouldn’t matter what the detective found or thought he found.
The killer looked out of the window and sipped from a glass of wine, a morning glass of French table wine, a small one which always seemed to help clear the mind.
A Cold Red Sunrise Page 16