And then something interesting happened. Rostnikov came out of the People’s Hall and looked up the slope. The killer did not move away from the window, did not want to risk being seen moving away from the policeman’s eyes. Better to simply stand there, look down. Rostnikov turned his head and began to move around the square and onto the just-cleared path. But before he could get ten yards, the door to the old building across the square opened and the other one, the one with the mustache, Sokolov, came running out to head off Rostnikov.
He blocked the other man’s way and spoke quickly, apparently with anger and much movement of his hands and arms; the killer could hear the voices but none of the words. Rostnikov looked up the slope wearily and then answered Sokolov with apparent calm and no histrionics.
Whatever he said infuriated Sokolov even more. He pointed a finger at the inspector who moved past him and he kept shouting as Rostnikov followed the plowed path upward past the weather station. Rostnikov did not turn back, did not acknowledge the shouting man in the square standing next to the ruins of the old church. Sokolov shouted once more and then gave up and stalked back into the house slamming the door.
Rostnikov was out of sight for the moment beyond the bend, blocked by the concrete weather station. The killer stepped back from the window, put down the empty wine glass and waited in the expectation that Rostnikov would in a few moments be knocking at the door.
ELEVEN
“YOU LOOK WEARY, INSPECTOR,” General Krasnikov said as he ushered Rostnikov into the house.
Rostnikov grunted, unbuttoned the top of his coat, tucked his hat into his pocket, glanced at the furious stuffed head of the bear and moved to the firm wooden chair he had sat in before.
Krasnikov was dressed in a quasi-military suit of boots, gray neatly pressed pants, white shirt and tie and gray jacket. Rostnikov looked up at the General who wandered to his desk by the window, looked out and then turned back to look at his visitor.
“Your Comrade Procurator is not pleased with you,” he said nodding toward the window. “I happened to be looking out the window a few minutes ago.”
Rostnikov said nothing. He nodded and rubbed his nose.
“I can’t say I liked the manner of the man when you two were here yesterday,” Krasnikov went on, standing, hands clasped behind him, legs spread slightly. The pose reminded Rostnikov of the Gray Wolfhound, which reminded him of Moscow, which in turn reminded him of Sarah.
“He wanted to come with me to talk to you,” Rostnikov said.
“And?”
“I didn’t want him to come,” Rostnikov went on, opening his eyes but still rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”
“Good,” said Krasnikov firmly. “I do not like the man. He confuses duty with power.”
“A common military mistake?” Rostnikov asked, looking away from the General to a vague spot on the dark wood wall.
“Yes.”
Outside the navy plow groaned into the gray morning. The two men said nothing for a few minutes. The general stood erect. The inspector sat back with his eyes closed. Finally, Rostnikov sighed deeply and sat up.
“Let us play a military game,” he said. “I’ll propose a hypothetical situation, problem, and you provide a solution.”
Krasnikov did not answer. Porfiry Petrovich shifted in his chair, looked at the general and went on.
“Military strategists like games, at least that’s what Marshal Timeshenko said.”
“I do not argue with Marshal Timeshenko,” said Krasnikov.
“Suppose a military man fascinated by military strategy, feeling, perhaps, that his country is pursuing a foolish military course were banished for his ideas. Having nothing to do and being a man of letters, this military man spends some time writing his criticism of the military course of his former comrades and their nonmilitary superiors.”
“For what purpose?” Krasnikov asked evenly.
“For what purpose does he write or for what purpose does he intend the results of his labor to be applied?”
“Both,” said Krasnikov.
“Perhaps he writes because there is no one to listen except some reader of the future. Perhaps he dreams of return and wants his thoughts in clear form for publication. Perhaps he is bitter and wants to present his ideas to the world in the hope that by so doing he will force his country to revise its military strategy, force his country through the voices of its critics in other countries, because its strategy has been compromised, to develop a policy closer to his own. So many reasons.”
“And the game?” Krasnikov said.
“Where would he keep his manuscript? How would he get it out of the country?”
“This sounds more like a policeman’s game than a military strategist’s,” said Krasnikov. “Would you like some tea?”
“No tea. And yes, perhaps it is a policeman’s game.”
“Inspector, you have probably been up all night. You are worried about your wife. You have a killer to catch, a mystery to solve. Perhaps you would be better off dealing with those problems than with hypothetical ones.”
Rostnikov smiled.
“You’ve been talking to one of the sailors,” he said. “That is how you know about my wife.”
“The people I find most compatible in this compound are those of the military even if they are not men of rank,” said Krasnikov.
“What about our game?”
“I don’t wish to play your game, Comrade Inspector.”
“It is possible that Commissar Rutkin in the course of his investigation of the death of the Samsonov child found himself playing the game,” said Rostnikov.
Krasnikov looked down at Rostnikov, tilted his head and laughed.
“You are amused,” said Rostnikov with a sigh. “I’m pleased that I can bring a moment of mirth into the life of a resident of Tumsk.”
“I don’t believe Commissar Rutkin found himself playing such a game,” Krasnikov said controlling his amusement.
Rostnikov rose, smiled at Krasnikov and said, “If such a manuscript existed by such a man, I would have no interest in it other than its connection to the death of the child, the murder of Commissar Rutkin, and the shooting of Sergei Mirasnikov.”
“I did not kill the child or Rutkin. Nor did I shoot Mirasnikov. I am a soldier.”
“I understand,” Rostnikov said, stepping toward the still erect general, “that in Afghanistan, Soviet soldiers are being told to shoot children and old men.”
“A policy and strategy destined for failure. Afghanistan is a disaster, should never have been entered into. The Soviet army should leave immediately before more of our reputation is eroded and more of our men are needlessly killed. It is not like the American’s Viet Nam. For us it is worse, far worse.”
“And this book, if it existed, might point out this folly?” Rostnikov said, now no more than three feet from the taller general.
There was something in the barrel-of-a-man’s voice that made Krasnikov pause.
“It might. It would,” he said.
Rostnikov nodded and started for the door.
“I have a son in the army, in Afghanistan,” he said.
“I see,” said Krasnikov behind him. “I would imagine that a police inspector might have enough blat to get his son out of that death trap.”
“Some police inspectors are not looked upon with favor by the KGB,” said Rostnikov. “Some police inspectors have made the mistake of playing games of strategy not unlike the one I proposed we play.”
“And some police inspectors are clever enough to be maskirovannoye, masked, to play games to trap naïve lawbreakers,” said Krasnikov.
“Keep writing, Comrade General,” Rostnikov said, opening the door and stepping into the morning.
The yellow navy plow was screeching up the slope past the porch. Rostnikov stood waiting for it to pass. The driver, thickly bundled in fur, waved to Rostnikov who waved back.
“You are sure?” Dr. Olga Yegeneva aske
d, her eyes magnified by the round glasses.
The two women stood talking in the hall of a small private medical facility, really an old two-story house near the small botanic garden off of Mirak Prospekt. The office Olga Yegeneva shared with two other doctors was occupied and so they had moved into the hall where the doctor offered to sit with her patient on a wooden bench. Sarah Rostnikov had indicated that she would prefer to stand.
Sarah Rostnikov looked at the serious young woman in the white smock who stood before her and thought for an instant that it might be better to find an older doctor, a man. Then the instant passed and she saw the younger woman’s confidence, steadiness and, equally important, her sincere concern for the patient before her.
“I’ve thought about it. Better to get it done quickly, have it over when he gets back,” she said. “You’ve said every day of waiting is an added danger.”
“Perhaps, but …” Dr. Yegeneva said.
“He’ll forgive me,” Sarah said.
“Your son. We could make some calls, perhaps get him back here on leave,” the young doctor said, adjusting her glasses.
The young woman was quite pretty, her skin clear, her short hair a clean straw-yellow, her magnified eyes a glowing gray. Sarah imagined her son meeting the woman, sharing a joke near Sarah’s hospital bed, getting together. Even though her cousin had recommended Dr. Yegeneva, Sarah knew the young woman was not Jewish. It was possible that if Josef took a non-Jewish wife he would cease to be identified as Jewish, that his children, Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich’s grandchildren, would not be identified as Jewish. She thought this and felt guilty at the thought, guilty and angry and the anger showed.
“I’d rather my son know nothing of this till the operation is over,” she said. “If everything is fine, he need not come. If everything is not fine, you can try to get him to Moscow as soon as you can. He will need his father. His father will need him.”
Olga Yegeneva took both of her patient’s hands.
“I’m very good,” she said softly.
Sarah looked back into the gray eyes.
“I believe you are,” she said. “Alex told me you are.”
“I’ll make the calls, set up the surgery for tomorrow morning,” Olga Yegeneva said.
“My husband will arrange for the remainder of the costs when he gets back,” she said. “We have saved a bit. We’ll have a bit left after.”
Olga Yegeneva nodded. She didn’t like talking about money. She didn’t like talking about very much but her work. She had heard, read of the money, prestige of surgeons in the West. She would have settled for the respect she felt her skills deserved. Getting through medical school had required all of the influence of her father, a department head at the University of Leningrad. Her father had even joined the Communist Party when she was but a little girl in anticipation of ensuring the education of his only child.
In medical school, Olga and the other women were treated with tolerance rather than acceptance. Olga’s interest in surgery had been discouraged but her skill couldn’t be denied. She pushed, insisted, studied, proved herself and passed all of her surgery examinations, examinations which, she understood, were much more rigorous in the West.
In spite of what she had heard of western physicians, Olga Yegeneva never thought of emigration or defection even had they been possible. Russia was her country. She had no desire to be anywhere else.
Even her initial assignment to a public ward dealing with daily complaints of workers at a radiator factory in Minsk had not initially discouraged her. It was the fact that she was given no surgery, no promotion, no change and no recognition of commendation that prompted her to consider a private career. The main problems with a private medical career were the costs, the pressure and suspicion of the medical committees, and the fact that she would have to deal with those who could afford her services. Olga hated dealing with money, hated bartering for the health of her patients.
According to Article 42 of the Soviet Constitution, which was quoted to her throughout her medical education and in every medical meeting she had attended, citizens of the USSR have the right to “free, qualified medical care provided by State health institutions.” However, the quality of that care was in the hands of health care professionals, nurses, therapists, doctors, who were overworked, underpaid and often underqualified. Many of the professionals were outstanding, but many lived a life of professional lethargy.
“What shall I do?” Sarah Rostnikov said.
“Go home, pack lightly and wait for my call. I’ll try to clear an operating room for tomorrow morning,” the young woman said still holding Sarah’s hands.
“Yes,” Sarah said looking around at a woman in a wheelchair being pushed by a serious young man.
There was nothing more to say. The younger woman hugged Sarah Rostnikov, and looked into her eyes with a confidence Sarah was sure she did not completely feel.
When Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov returned to the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity, he found three people in the assembly room, Emil Karpo, Dimitri Galich and a man kneeling in front of an open brown sack made of animal skins. Karpo and Galich had removed their coats and hats and stood still heavily clad in sweaters. Rostnikov noticed a most uncharacteristic piece of jewelry, a beaded necklace of amber, around the neck of Emil Karpo. He had no time or opportunity to comment on it at the moment. Rostnikov’s attention was drawn to the man on his knees, who looked up for only an instant when Rostnikov stepped in. The kneeling man still wore his fur parka and hood.
“This is Kurmu,” Karpo announced to Rostnikov who opened his coat and plunged his hat into his pocket.
Galich said something guttural to the kneeling man who grunted but did not look up again.
“I told him you were a representative of the Soviet government with full powers,” Galich said.
“He does not appear to have been impressed,” said Rostnikov moving across the wooden floor toward the kneeling Evenk. “What is he doing?”
“He says he is preparing,” Galich said. “He hasn’t told me what he is preparing for.”
“We’ll try not to keep him from his task too long,” said Rostnikov. “Emil, I think it would be best if we had no visitors for a while. That includes Dr. Samsonov and Comrade Sokolov.”
“You will have no visitors,” Karpo said. “Shall I wait outside?”
“No,” said Rostnikov, yawning. “We will go into Mirasnikov’s room. My questions are few and simple.”
Karpo nodded. Galich walked to the Evenk still kneeling on the floor.
“Will you ask him to join us?” Rostnikov said and Galich spoke the language again.
Kurmu, apparently satisfied that he had what he needed, closed the sack, nodded and got to his feet. For the first time, he looked at Rostnikov and a smile passed between the two men. Rostnikov liked the man instantly.
Inside the nearby room, Liana Mirasnikov lay on a bed in the corner sleeping soundly. Sergei Mirasnikov lay, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his face drenched with perspiration.
Rostnikov watched Kurmu whose eyes fell on the dying old man. Before Rostnikov could ask his next question, Kurmu moved to Mirasnikov’s bedside, sat cross-legged on the floor and opened his sack. He paused to loosen his parka and toss the cape back to reveal his peppery-white hair that hung straight and shining to his neck.
“You want me to ask him what he is doing?” Galich offered.
“No,” said Rostnikov watching the old man reach into the sack and pull out a small wooden bowl, a gnarled root and a brownish thick block.
“The root is ginseng,” Galich said. “The other piece is panti, raindeer horn.”
Rostnikov watched with interest as the shaman pulled out a large knife with a white bone handle and began to shave pieces of ginseng and panti into the bowl.
“That’s wild ginseng,” Galich said. “During the Mongol occupation, a natural root like that would have been worth thousands of rubles. Even now that root looks like it would bring a
good price in Manchuria.”
The shaman was rocking back and forth slowly as he reached into the sack again and pulled out a smaller jar that looked as if it had once held jelly. He opened the jar, took out a pinch of yellow, flaky material and mixed it into the bowl. While he mixed, he said something.
“He wants water,” Galich said. “Water from snow. I’ll get it.”
“How are you feeling?” Rostnikov asked as Galich moved toward the door.
Galich’s eyes were heavy, tired and dark, and the man’s white stubble of overnight beard reminded Rostnikov that the bulky former priest was not a young man, that he had been drunk when he went out into the Siberian winter, that he probably hadn’t had much sleep in at least thirty hours.
“Fascinated,” Galich said with a grin and he left the room.
The closing of the door woke Mirasnikov who looked up at the wooden ceiling, blinked, wiped his face with his already soaked blanket and looked toward the sound of something moving at his side. When he saw Kurmu, Sergei Mirasnikov tried to scream. It was only the ghost of a scream because he had no strength, but his mouth and face made clear his intent.
Kurmu paid no attention and continued rocking and mixing his brew. Rostnikov moved to the bed quickly and looked down at Mirasnikov.
“Be calm, Sergei,” Rostnikov said. “The shaman is trying to help you.”
“He means to kill me,” Mirasnikov said. “He means to kill me for telling you that he sent the demon.”
Then Mirasnikov said something which Rostnikov didn’t understand and the old shaman answered with what sounded like a single abrupt word that brought a dry laugh of disbelief from Mirasnikov.
“I say he means to kill me,” Mirasnikov said, getting up on his elbows. The sheet fell back showing the old man’s thin, white bandaged chest.
Galich returned with a pot of snow which he brought to the shaman who accepted it with firm, brown hands. Mirasnikov lay back moaning and his wife paused in her snoring for a beat during which Rostnikov feared she would wake up.
“Can he talk while he does that?” Rostnikov asked.
Galich asked the shaman something and the old man nodded.
A Cold Red Sunrise Page 17