“A traditional military tactic,” said Krasnikov. “But it does no good if the carrier does not cross the border.”
“Perhaps a miracle will happen very soon,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps a new killer will be identified and Samsonov will be freed and urged to leave the country within the week as he was scheduled to do.”
Krasnikov examined the bland, flat face of the policeman and smiled.
“Then we will have to hope for a miracle,” he said.
“Do you still wish to be arrested for murder?” Rostnikov asked.
“There seems to be a slight hint of sun this morning,” said Krasnikov. “Perhaps I won’t confess today.”
The general moved to the bed and held out his right hand. Rostnikov took it.
“Forgive me for not rising, Comrade.”
“Forgive me for underestimating you,” Krasnikov responded.
“Always a tactical error,” said Rostnikov.
“Just as Tolstoy said in his Military Strategy Through History,” said Krasnikov releasing the inspector’s hand.
“A book I should read some day,” said Rostnikov with a sigh.
“Let’s hope you do,” said the General moving to the door. “Good morning.”
It was Rostnikov’s belief that only one copy existed of Tolstoy’s Military Strategy Through History and that copy had most definitely not been written by Tolstoy. The general left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Rostnikov listened to his booted feet move across the short hall and down the stairs. When the outside door closed, Rostnikov sensed rather than heard another movement in the house and then a light knock at the door.
“Come in, Emil,” he called, and Karpo entered the room dressed in black trousers, shoes, and a turtleneck sweater, and carrying a thick sheaf of papers. Rostnikov looked up. “Emil, how is it that you never need a shave?”
“I shave frequently, Comrade Inspector,” Karpo said.
“Good,” sighed Rostnikov, putting his feet on the floor and reaching out to accept Karpo’s report. “I feared that you had found a way to remove facial hair but once in your life so you would not have to spend time removing it, time you could be spending at work.”
“I don’t think such a procedure exists, Comrade,” Karpo said seriously. “If it were not time-consuming and were reversible, it might well be a consideration. A very rough estimate would yield thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of man-hours saved in the ranks of the MVD alone.”
“You are not joking, are you, Emil? You haven’t finally made a joke?” Rostnikov said with a smile as he stood.
“Not at all,” said Karpo, puzzled. “The seemingly absurd can turn out to be the eminently practical. Invention often requires the creativity of the absurd.”
“Do you ever practice such creativity, Emil?” Rostnikov stretched and looked toward the window.
“Never, Comrade. I am not creative. I leave that to others, like you, who have a genetic or developed ability in that direction,” said Karpo.
“Perhaps you do have a sense of humor, Emil. The problem is that you don’t know it. I think it is time to go catch a killer. Shall we go over it again?”
“If you think it is necessary,” Karpo said.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “Let’s go.”
Three minutes later Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov left the house on the square, looked over at the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity, glanced at the statue of Ermak and started once again up the snowy slope following in the plowed furrow that was almost refilled with drifting snow. He trudged past the weather station and moved to the door of the house of Dimitri Galich.
“It will grow back quickly,” Olga Yegeneva assured her patient.
Sarah Rostnikov looked up at the young surgeon and nodded to show that she understood but she found it difficult to answer, to speak, for fear of crying. Porfiry Petrovich had always admired her dark hair with reddish highlights, her naturally curling hair which had recently developed strands of gray.
“Most of it is still there and it can be brushed over,” said Olga Yegeneva. “I told them to be most careful of that.”
Sarah looked around the small room. The room was white, rather old-fashioned. There were two other beds in the room, one empty, the other containing a sleeping woman with white hair who snored very gently. The winter sun beamed through the window making it difficult for Sarah to accept that the moment was nearing.
“It shouldn’t be sunny,” she finally said with a sad smile.
“It should,” said the doctor, her eyes widening behind her round glasses. “Are you ready?”
Sarah shrugged.
“Why not?”
Olga Yegeneva took her patient’s right hand in both of hers and told her again what the procedure would be, that she would be given an injection which would make her drowsy, that she would be wheeled to the operating room where the anesthetic would be administered. She would fall asleep and wake up back in this room, very sleepy, very tired.
“I will wake up back in this room,” Sarah repeated.
“You will.”
The doctor released her patient’s hand and made way for a man in white who stepped to the side of Sarah’s bed with a hypodermic needle in his hand.
Sarah tried to remember the faces of her husband and son. It was suddenly very important to do so and she wanted to stop this man, call the doctor back, explain that she needed just a few minutes more, a few minutes to remember the faces. It was like catching one’s breath. The doctor would understand. She would have to, but Sarah felt the sting of the needle. The panic left her and Sarah gave in, closed her eyes and smiled because the image of Porfiry Petrovich and Josef came to her clearly and both were smiling.
Galich, smiling, clad in overalls and a flannel shirt under a thick green pullover sweater and carrying a brush in his thick right hand, ushered Rostnikov into the house.
“You want to use the weights?” he asked, moving across the room to his worktable cluttered with bits of metal, cloth and glass. The mesh armor had been joined by a thick rusted metal spear which Galich held up for Rostnikov to see.
“No weights today,” said Rostnikov. “I have much to do.”
“Found this spear only this morning,” said Galich. “Piece of good luck. It’s definitely Mongol and seems to have belonged to a tribal leader. See the markings? Right here?” He brushed at them gently and went on. “Heavy, iron, but remarkably balanced.”
He hefted the weapon in his right hand, showing how well it was balanced.
“An interesting weapon,” Rostnikov agreed. “But there are more ancient ones which are also interesting.”
Rostnikov had moved to a chair near the window about fifteen feet from the table.
“Such as?” Galich asked, working at the spear which he returned gently to the table.
“Ice. A simple, frozen spear of ice,” said Rostnikov. “Such as the one that killed Commissar Rutkin.”
“True,” agreed Galich. “A spear of ice would be unreliable. It might break. But as you said at the hearing, Samsonov must have been insane with hatred.”
“You are most happy this morning,” said Rostnikov. “May I ask why?”
“Why?” Galich repeated and reached up to brush back his wild white hair. “Perhaps the spear, perhaps something internal.”
“Does it have something to do with Samsonov being held for murder, something to do with the fact that if he is convicted he will not leave the country?”
Galich stopped brushing, the dim gray light of the arctic circle outlining him from the window at his back.
“I don’t understand,” the former priest said, the joy leaving his voice.
“Samsonov did not kill Commissar Rutkin,” said Rostnikov. “You killed Commissar Rutkin.”
“I …” Galich said with a deep laugh, pointing to his chest. “What makes you think …”
“When Kurmu pointed at you at Mirasnikov’s bedside, he identified you as the man he saw kill Commissar Rutkin. I
’m afraid your translation was a bit inaccurate, but Mirasnikov was awake and understands the language.”
“He is wrong,” Galich said, his voice now calm and even. “Mirasnikov is a sick man, an old man. He did not hear correctly.”
“I wasn’t sure why you did it though I had some idea. It wasn’t till I came through that door a few minutes ago and saw your happiness that I was sure,” Rostnikov said.
“This is ridiculous,” Galich said, his jaw going tight, his hands playing with the brush, putting the brush aside, playing with the spear.
“No, it is not ridiculous,” said Rostnikov. “The life of the spirit, of the past you came to pursue, to end your life with, was pushed to the side for the life of the body you thought you had put to sleep. Am I right, Dimitri? I’ve looked at your file, your history. You lost your church. You didn’t quit. You lost your church because you were accused of seduction of four of the women in your church.”
“I assume you are not asking me but informing me,” Galich said evenly.
“I’m discussing it with you. I’m trying to decide what to do about this situation,” said Rostnikov.
“I did not try to shoot you, Porfiry Petrovich,” Galich said solemnly.
“Moments after the shooting, I had Emil Karpo get up to the slope. The person who shot at me made a series of trails in the snow, footprints leading to this house, Samsonov’s house and General Krasnikov’s house.”
“I did not shoot at you. I did not shoot Mirasnikov,” Galich said.
“I believe you, Dimitri, but I am sure you know who did the shooting. And I am sure you will not tell me. Didn’t the attempt to shoot me, didn’t the shooting of the old man make you suspicious?”
Galich said nothing, simply played with the spear before him.
“You killed Rutkin,” Rostnikov said.
“Your evidence is absurd,” said Galich softly.
“We are not talking about evidence here,” Rostnikov said sitting forward in the chair. “We are talking about what you and I know.”
“Why did you arrest Samsonov? Why did you have that hearing?” Galich asked softly.
“To deceive a killer,” said Rostnikov. “A killer, I think, who has a great interest in seeing to it that Samsonov be allowed to leave the country.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You just said I don’t want Samsonov to leave,” Galich shouted.
“You don’t, but I wasn’t talking about you. Now, let’s talk about you. I understand a man can live in those forests indefinitely if he knows what he is doing. I believe you told me that.”
“One cedar tree can provide enough for a man for a year,” agreed Galich with a laugh. “I might be able to live in the taiga, but I’m too old and too civilized. Is that the option you give me, Rostnikov? I run and disappear and you announce that I’m the killer. The case is closed and everyone is happy. Everyone but me.”
“It is a chance to live, Dimitri,” Rostnikov said softly.
“I’ve just come back to life,” Galich said. “I’m too old for any more changes, too old to live alone in the cold and darkness.”
“Dimitri …” Rostnikov began, but before he could say more the Mongol spear was in Galich’s right hand, had been hefted over his shoulder and was whistling across the room. Rostnikov rolled to his right breaking the arm of the chair. He didn’t see the spear break through the back of the chair but he did hear it clatter to the floor and across the room.
Rostnikov tried to rise quickly, but his leg would not cooperate and he had to roll back toward the chair anticipating another attack by an ancient weapon.
“Dimitri Galich,” he called. “Stop.”
“I lied,” shouted Galich, picking up a rusted knife with a curved blade. “I did try to shoot you. I did shoot Mirasnikov.”
Rostnikov was on his knees now as the former priest came around the table knife in hand. Using the remaining good arm of the almost destroyed chair, Porfiry Petrovich managed to stand ready to meet the attack of the advancing man. Galich stepped into the light of the window and Rostnikov could see his red eyes filled with tears. He could also see the ancient flecks of rust on the blade of the knife. He wanted to say something to stop the man, but Rostnikov had seen that look in the eyes of the desperate before. Words would not stop him.
The bullet cracked through the window as Galich raised the knife to strike and Rostnikov prepared to counter the attack. The bullet hit Galich under the arm and spun him around. A rush of frigid air burst through the broken window sending papers on the worktable flying like thick snow. Beyond the window, Emil Karpo stood, arms straight, pistol aimed. Galich recovered a bit and turned for another lunge at Rostnikov. The second shot hit him in the chest and the third and final shot entered his eye at approximately the same angle Galich had stabbed Commissar Rutkin with an icicle.
As he fell the former priest let out a massive groan that sounded almost like relief. When he hit the floor, there was little doubt. Dimitri Galich was dead.
“Come around,” Rostnikov called to Karpo who put his pistol away and made his way around the house as Rostnikov bent awkwardly over Dimitri Galich’s body to confirm what he already knew. The wind through the broken window suddenly grew angry, tumbled a book to the floor and whistled shrilly into one of the ancient bottles on the table.
Karpo came through the door and moved to Rostnikov’s side.
“Did you hear?” Rostnikov asked.
“A little,” said Karpo.
“He confessed to the murder of Commissar Rutkin,” said Rostnikov, pulling his coat around him as the house quickly grew cold. “The reasons he gave were muddled. He was a bit mad, I’m afraid. I imagine living in Tumsk for several years does not minimize that risk.”
“Shall I tell Famfanoff to free Dr. Samsonov?” Karpo said.
“Not yet. I have something to do first. Attend to Dimitri Galich’s body and then prepare your report.”
“Yes, Inspector. Shall I inform Procurator Sokolov and arrange for air transport back to Moscow?”
“The sooner the better,” said Rostnikov, finally looking away from the body. “You know, Emil, I liked the man.”
“So I observed,” said Karpo.
And with that Rostnikov headed for the door and a meeting he dreaded.
A slight snow was falling as he stepped out of Galich’s house, the first since Rostnikov had come to Tumsk. He wondered if a plane could get through the snow, if there was a chance that he would be snowed in and unable to get back to Moscow, back to Sarah.
He stepped off the small porch and walked the thirty or so yards to the Samsonovs’. He didn’t have to knock. Ludmilla Samsonov opened the door as he neared the house.
She was dressed in white, her dark hair tied back, tiny earrings of white stone dangling from her ears. He lips were pink and shiny and her eyes full of fear.
“I’ve been hoping you would come,” she said fighting back a chill.
“Let’s get inside,” he said stepping in, close to her, smelling her, unsure of whether the smell was natural or perfume. She closed the door and smiled at him uncertainly.
“I have some coffee ready,” she said nervously. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you,” Rostnikov said removing his hat and unbuttoning his coat.
“Please have a seat,” she said pointing at the sofa. “Let me take your coat.”
Rostnikov removed his coat, handed it to the woman who brushed his hand as she took it. He sat on the sofa and made room for her when she returned from placing his coat on a table near the window. She straightened her dress, revealing her slim legs, and looked into his face.
“I heard something,” she said. “It sounded like shots.”
“Yes,” he said. “I heard it. I’ll have Inspector Karpo investigate. You said at the hearing that you wished to speak to me?”
“Yes,” she said leaning close, almost weeping. “My husband did not kill Commissar Rutkin. He didn’t shoot Mirasnikov. He has bee
n distraught by Karla’s death. That is true. But he is a gentle man. You must be mistaken. I would do anything for him, anything.”
“Anything?” Rostnikov asked.
“Yes,” she said, holding back the tears.
“Even be very friendly to a rather homely old police inspector?”
“I believe in my husband’s innocence,” she said, her eyes pleading, her mouth quivering.
Her teeth, Rostnikov noted, were remarkably white and even. Rostnikov took her hand. She didn’t resist.
“And how would I do this? How could I let him go after the hearing?”
“You could find new evidence, evidence that the murderer is the Evenk, the one Mirasnikov saw, the one you talked to,” she said eagerly. “The Evenk accused Lev to protect himself. Someone, Dimitri Galich, could tell the Evenk, tell him to go away. I’ll ask Galich right away.”
She looked into his eyes, squeezed his hand.
“Dimitri Galich is dead,” he said.
Ludmilla Samsonov withdrew her hands and shuddered.
“Dead?”
“Inspector Karpo had to shoot him no more than ten minutes ago,” said Rostnikov. “He attempted to kill me after confessing that he killed Commissar Rutkin.”
“That’s …” she began. “Then my husband will be freed.”
She breathed deeply and sat back. Rostnikov said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she went on. “I was so … My husband has been through so much.”
“And it is very important that he be allowed to move to the West,” said Rostnikov.
“It is what he wants, what he needs,” she said. “He cannot contain, cannot control his beliefs. If he remains in the Soviet Union, he will get into more trouble. If he remains in Siberia unable to practice, to do his research, he will probably die.”
“And that is important to you?” asked Rostnikov.
She nodded.
“Would you like to know why Dimitri Galich killed Commissar Rutkin?” Rostnikov asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Dimitri Galich, before he died, said that he killed Commissar Rutkin because you asked him to,” Rostnikov said.
“I … he said I …” she said, her eyes opening, her hand moving to her breast.
A Cold Red Sunrise Page 19