“Absurd on the surface,” said Rostnikov, “but he claimed with the sincerity of a dying man that you and he were lovers and that you said Rutkin was going to reveal your affair as part of the hearing into the death of Karla Samsonov.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said clasping her hands together.
“I don’t know,” Rostnikov shrugged. “He swore and it sounded sincere to me and my assistant.”
“Why would I have an affair with Dimitri Galich?” she cried. “He was old enough to be my father, maybe my grandfather.”
“As am I,” Rostnikov said, “and moments ago you appeared to be quite willing to be intimate with me to get me to free your husband. It is possible you knew about Galich’s vulnerability, his background and weakness for women and you engaged him with the very thought of getting him to kill Commissar Rutkin. My experience seems to confirm Galich’s dying claim.”
“How would I know anything of Dimitri Galich’s background, this weakness?” she said, standing and fishing into the pocket of her dress for a package of cigarettes. She pulled one out, put it to her lips and lit it, her eyes fixed on the placid face of the seated policeman.
“My guess,” said Rostnikov, “is that you are a KGB agent, that you have spent some time in getting close to Samsonov, marrying him. My guess is that Samsonov is finding it relatively easy to leave the country not only as a gesture of glasnost, but because he will be in a position within the western scientific community to learn a great deal about people, developments which would be of great value to the KGB. My guess is that when Karla died, and according to the reports her death was quite natural, quite accidental, and Samsonov went wild in grief and anger, it threatened your plan. Rutkin was sent because he was incompetent. It was assumed he would be fed information, probably most of it true, to prove that Karla died by accident. With your help, it was hoped that Samsonov would believe it, would leave the country, would not go mad. You had invested too much in him to lose Samsonov. Am I close?”
“Go on,” she said taking a deep lungful of smoke.
“Somehow Rutkin stumbled on information about you. Perhaps it wasn’t much but it was enough to make it possible for your husband to become suspicious. And Commissar Rutkin was ambitious. Maybe you tried to persuade him to be quiet about what he knew. Maybe you even told him you were KGB. Maybe he didn’t believe you.”
“It was ridiculous,” Ludmilla Samsonov said with a deep sigh, reaching over to put out her unfinished cigarette. “I told him to call Moscow. The phones were out. All that night. He didn’t believe me. The fool didn’t believe me and he was going to ruin everything. He confronted Galich, told him, told me that he would suggest at the hearing that we might have killed Karla. He came up with some nonsense about Karla having seen Galich and me together.”
“And so,” said Rostnikov still sitting. “You convinced Galich that he had to kill Rutkin and because he loved you he did it. He was quite happy this morning. He thought your husband was going to prison, that you wouldn’t be leaving Tumsk. I’m sorry to say that you handled the situation rather badly. Your attempt to shoot me is a rather good example of what can only be described as incompetence.”
“And what do you plan to do with this information?” she said.
Rostnikov pulled himself up from the sofa with a deep breath and looked at her. She was quite beautiful, even more beautiful now that the guise of vulnerability had been dropped.
“Nothing,” said Rostnikov. “There is nothing I can do to you without destroying myself.” He looked around the room. “I will announce that Galich was the murderer. I will order the release of your husband. And in a few days the two of you will leave the country with your belongings, your books, your memories.”
“That is a wise decision, Comrade,” she said, “and I will tell my superiors of your cooperation.”
She held out her right hand but Rostnikov did not take it.
“I do not give my hand to murderers,” said Rostnikov.
She dropped her hand to her side and shrugged.
“As long as you keep your word to them, Comrade,” she said.
Rostnikov nodded, accepted his coat and hat and refused to let her help him put them on. He had learned patience. General Krasnikov’s book would leave the country. He assumed the general had some contact in the West who could pick it up, probably get it published, maybe save some lives including Josef’s.
As for Ludmilla Samsonov, Rostnikov was well aware of the need for such operations, the need for intelligence information. But he could not forgive her the seduction and death of Dimitri Galich. Perhaps some day a western embassy would receive a call or a note suggesting that Ludmilla Samsonov was not what she appeared to be. Perhaps and perhaps not.
Rostnikov moved quickly away from the house and down the slope. The snow had stopped. He was on his way home to Sarah.
THIRTEEN
BEFORE HE LEFT TUMSK, ROSTNIKOV ordered the release of Lev Samsonov with apologies and announced that for reasons unknown Dimitri Galich had murdered Commissar Rutkin and, when he was discovered, was killed trying to resist arrest.
Samsonov was presented with the information confirming his daughter’s death by natural causes and his wife, in an emotional plea to her husband, helped to convince him that Rostnikov’s report on Karla’s death was accurate, that there was no conspiracy.
Procurator Sokolov brooded but could find no fault with Rostnikov’s actions other than his lack of consideration for the representative of the Procurator General’s Office.
Rostnikov said goodbye to the officer at the weather station and the Mirasnikov’s. He promised Famfanoff that he would write the letter for him supporting his request for transfer.
The last resident of Tumsk Rostnikov saw before he left the town was General Krasnikov who was standing at his window when Rostnikov, Karpo and Sokolov came out of the house with their bags and headed for the waiting helicopter.
Krasnikov was holding a glass in his hand which he raised in a toast to the departing policeman. Rostnikov nodded almost imperceptibly in response.
Sokolov said nothing during the flight. When they arrived at Igarka and boarded the airplane to which they transferred, Rostnikov turned to Karpo seated at his side. Sokolov had chosen to sit five rows from them.
“You did well, Emil Karpo,” he said.
“Thank you, Comrade Inspector.” Rostnikov still had the feeling that Karpo had something to say or deal with, but he knew the man well enough to know that he could not ask again. So Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov wrote his letter requesting Famfanoff’s transfer and went to sleep.
When they arrived at the airport in Moscow, the temperature was a balmy 15 degrees above zero. Rostnikov didn’t bother to put on his hat as they walked the hundred or so yards from the plane to the terminal. Sokolov left them without a word and Rostnikov hurried to a phone to call Sarah. There was no answer. It was almost five in the morning. He found the phone number of the woman doctor in his notebook and called it.
“Dr. Yegeneva?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said sleepily. “Who …?”
“Rostnikov. My wife?”
“She’s at the clinic. I’m … We operated this morning. She insisted, wanted it over when you got back. She’s fine, just fine. The tumor was benign though there were a few minor complications. She will be fine.”
She gave him the address of the clinic and he hurried away from the phone.
“We should talk, Porfiry Petrovich,” Karpo said. He had stood waiting a discreet dozen paces away.
“It will have to wait till tomorrow, Emil,” he said. “Sarah had the operation this morning. I must go to the clinic.”
“Is she …?”
“She is doing well. I talked to the doctor. Go home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we begin a new day. Tomorrow we talk.”
Rostnikov resisted the urge to hug the brooding pale detective, to reassure him. It was not the thing to do with Emil Karpo.
Rostnikov hurried to th
e front of the airport, found a taxi, threw his suitcase on the back seat and got in. He gave the driver the destination and sat back feeling, even smelling the familiar presence of Moscow. He did not want to think.
The cab passed within two blocks of where Sasha Tkach, who had been up for two hours, sat hugging himself to keep warm in a ten-year-old Ahiguli while Zelach sat snoring next to him. They were waiting for a truck belonging to the son of one Viktor Ivanov, a truck they thought might be carrying the stolen goods stolen from the Volovkatin apartment.
While Rostnikov sat in the back of his cab, Emil Karpo placed a call from the airport to the KGB. He gave his name and rank to the man with the deep voice who answered and told the man that Major Zhenya should be informed that he was on his way. There was a one-minute pause at the KGB and the man came back on to tell Karpo that the major would be waiting for him when he arrived.
Thirty minutes later Emil Karpo, his small dark travel case in hand, once again accompanied by two burly men in dark suits, entered the office of Major Zhenya who sat with his hands folded on his desk like a disapproving school master about to discipline a troublesome student. No emotion showed on the major’s face, but Karpo noted that a few strands of hair were out of place on the right side of the major’s head, just above the ear.
“Your report,” the major said.
“My written report will be in your hands in two hours,” said Karpo. “If you like, I will write it here.”
“Summarize,” the major said. “I’m not concerned about the investigation itself. I’ve already been informed about that. The conclusion is satisfactory. I wish a listing of each error, indiscretion, delay in Inspector Rostnikov’s investigation. We will be getting a similar report from Inspector Sokolov of the Procurator’s Office.”
“I will prepare the report on my observations of the investigation. I will also give you copies of my part of the investigation. I have that in my travel case. I will, however, inform Inspector Rostnikov, who is my immediate superior, that I have done so. This is in accordance with MVD and CID regulations.”
“I am well aware of the regulations,” Major Zhenya said. “In matters of national security, such regulations are superceded.”
“National security?” asked Karpo. “I am unable to see how Inspector Rostnikov’s conducting of this investigation deals with or compromises national security.”
“It is not your place to understand,” said Zhenya. “If you do not comply you will be obstructing an investigation dealing with national security, an investigation which involves much more that you do not see or understand.”
“Then I will have to accept the consequences of my decision. It is also my responsibility to inform you that my report on Inspector Rostnikov will contain no citations of impropriety. His methods are not always within the borders of suggested investigatory procedure, but they are well within his rights of discretion and his results are undeniable.”
Zhenya shook his head at the pale, unblinking man before him. He reached up to straighten the out-of-place hairs above his ear and reclasped his hands tightly. Karpo could see the major’s knuckles go white with anger.
“Have you considered your future, Comrade?” Zhenya asked.
“I have no ambition, Comrade,” said Karpo. “I wish only to do my work for the State. I do that work diligently and, I believe, efficiently according to regulations. To deprive the State of my training in retaliation for my unwillingness to perjure myself in a report would itself be disservice to the State. I am not, however, foolish enough to think that it is beyond your power to do so.”
“Get out,” Major Zhenya said evenly.
Karpo stood, said nothing more and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. One of the two men who stood outside the door of the major’s office handed him his travel bag. Karpo noted that the zipper was almost fully closed, not one-half of an inch open as he had left it. They had been through his things, probably already copied his duplicate notes on the investigation of Commissar Rutkin. There was nothing in the notes to compromise Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.
When he reached the front of the building, Karpo checked his watch and found that it was slightly after five. It was also Wednesday. He had slept on the plane to Moscow and needed no further rest. He would work on several outstanding cases if there were no new assignments on his desk. And that evening he would be seeing Mathilde Verson. Emil Karpo came very close to smiling.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, meanwhile, had arrived at the clinic where a very thin woman in white, with a voice that reminded him of a teacher he had had as a child, met him as he came through the door. She had been called by Dr. Yegeneva and had been waiting for him.
The woman chattered away in a whisper and led him down a short corridor and pointed at a door on the left.
“First bed. Doctor said no more than half an hour.” She went on smiling at him.
Rostnikov nodded, went through the door and put his case on the floor. The early morning sun was bursting brightly through the window on the three beds in the room. An older woman in the bed furthest to his right snored gently. In the center bed, a woman, possibly a child, lay curled up on her side, her dark hair covering her face. She breathed gently, asleep. In the third bed, the bed nearest him, lay his wife, her head covered by a turban of white bandages. Sarah lay on her back, eyes closed, hands at her sides.
Porfiry Petrovich moved to the side of the bed and reached down to hold Sarah’s hand. It was cool. She stirred, her mouth moving, and her eyes fluttered open and found him. She smiled weakly and squeezed his hand and then closed her eyes.
Rostnikov touched the bridge of his nose, glanced at the other two sleeping women and reached into his pocket. He leaned over, kissed his wife gently on the forehead and under her pillow placed a very small, slightly odd smelling red sack of reindeer hide.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
A Cold Red Sunrise Page 20