Rostnikov had been demoted from the procurator’s office to life under Snitkonoy, the Gray Wolfhound. Rostnikov had brought his own team, all of whom, like Rostnikov, had left after Procurator Anna Timofeyeva had her second heart attack and was forced to retire—along with the protective cloak, which she had provided the far too inquisitive Rostnikov.
Like Yaklovev, Rostnikov had a nickname: the Washtub. He was squat, compact, and heavy, with a dour Russian peasant face. He seldom smiled broadly. His voice was a soft, bearlike growl, but not a frightening one.
At the moment, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was not thinking of diamonds, but of his left leg, which was made not of flesh, blood, and bone, but of metal, plastic, and wood. His other left leg, the one that had been replaced, the shriveled one he had dragged behind him since his childhood, was floating in a very large jar in the second level below the ground floor of Petrovka, in Paulinin’s laboratory. Paulinin, agreed by the detectives of Petrovka to be a forensic genius and a lunatic, who talked to the corpses he worked on and far preferred their company to that of the living.
As the Yak continued to talk of diamonds, slowly coming to the point where Rostnikov would have to pay attention, the Chief Inspector was trying to decide on an issue of great importance. Should he take the shoe off of his left foot before climbing into bed each night, or simply leave it on when he removed the leg? Since getting the leg, he had been taking the shoe off, but what was the point? His wife Sarah told him simply to be comfortable. The bed was large. It made no difference to her.
Rostnikov considered bringing up the question to the Yak, but knew he would not. The Yak’s mind was on diamonds, and he had no sense of humor or irony and little curiosity. All of these attributes contributed to Rostnikov’s appreciation of the man. Anything the Yak said converted to how his words might be exchanged for political, economic, or social advantage. Rostnikov, however, always considered the irony of human existence, engaged in uncertain acts of humor, and was eternally curious about everything from whether a man should take the shoe off of his artificial leg when he went to sleep to who might kill a drunken policeman in an alleyway, not that anyone had recently killed a drunken policeman in an alleyway.
This train of thought reminded him that Russia, even with the passing of Communism, was still among the three countries in the world with the highest rate of alcoholism.
“You will learn,” said the Yak leaning forward, folding his hands on his desk and meeting his Chief Inspector’s eyes with a practiced, unblinking look that caused at least a drying of the mouth in everyone—everyone except Rostnikov.
Rostnikov blinked, adjusted his leg, and looked back at the Yak. Rostnikov nodded. He was not sure whether the Yak was issuing an order about diamonds or warning him that he was going to be in a situation in which his survival might be at stake when the lesson came. Rostnikov pursed his lips and nodded his head as if he knew what the Yak was talking about. And then the connection came.
“You are going to Siberia, to a diamond mine where a man, a Canadian geologist, died two days ago. You will determine if he was murdered. If he was, you are to tell me who killed him.”
“When am I leaving?”
“Tonight. There is a supply load of medication for the mining town, Devochka, leaving at nine by plane. You will be on it.”
“I will take Karpo.”
“Take whomever you wish. Pankov will arrange for a car to pick you and Karpo up at your home and get you to the plane.”
Pankov was the sweaty, frightened little man who sat at a desk outside of Yaklovev’s office, listened at the doorway when he considered it safe to do so, and did what he was told with nervous dispatch and an impressive number of contacts who owed him for small favors.
Rostnikov nodded again, considering the oddity of the name Devochka, a man’s name that meant “little girl.” Why had it come into being and why had a mining town in Siberia been given such a name?
Rostnikov started to rise, no mean trick for a box of a man with an artificial leg. The Yak held up a hand to let him know that the conversation had not ended. Rostnikov eased himself back into the chair and looked at Yaklovev. Was the Yak enjoying his Chief Investigator’s discomfort? Perhaps.
The two men had an uneasy and mutually beneficial alliance. The Yak protected Porfiry Petrovich, and the small band of investigators working under him, from political pressure on the outcomes of their investigations. He protected them well and with keen sincerity. In return, each success by Rostnikov was another potential step upward for the Yak. Except at the moment, he did not want to step upward. He gathered information, evidence, tapes, confessions, and indiscretions and locked them away in a safe hidden in his apartment.
Thanks to Rostnikov, when the time was right, the contents of that safe would secure Igor Yaklovev’s future, a future that would move the Yak far above his present office.
Rostnikov knew all this. It was the way of the world.
In a system in which the old laws had been thrown out and new ones still not fully defined, Rostnikov addressed puzzles, found the answers to questions, met people, and, when possible, engaged in the dispensation of justice, something the courts did only on occasion.
His was a fragile and questionable pursuit, but one he had accepted and in which he did well enough to survive.
“Your lesson,” said the Yak, handing Rostnikov a file folder.
Rostnikov took it.
“Devochka is one of the oldest diamond mines in Siberia. It dates back to 1887 when the Tsar ordered the exploration of Siberia for precious metals. It is estimated that as many as 40,000 people died looking for jewels in the ground that could be polished to fit into the rings, tiaras, bracelets, and precious little jewel boxes and precise gleaming eggs of the nobility. Aside from those who supervised, most of the workers were convicts, criminals, and political prisoners. They died, as many as twenty-five a day at the site of Devochka, where they began to mine. And then the mine was abandoned for lack of success after four fruitless years, but remained a prison camp.”
The Yak pointed at the report.
“The mine was and is not the most productive and profitable. The rocks containing the tiny gems are reluctant to give up their treasure.”
Rostnikov didn’t ask the Yak why he was telling him what must surely be in the report. He knew the Director well enough to know that there was a point—not historical, but very much in the present, and possibly the future.
“The mine has always been the bastard stepchild of Siberian diamond mines, almost closed when Stalin ordered new exploration for Siberian diamonds in 1957. Geologists and a new generation of convicts, political and criminal, died in the digging in numbers greater than those who had died at the mine in the service of the Tsar. Diamond pipes, veins of diamonds, were discovered. New mining machines were brought in, modern techniques employed, but Devochka kept steadily producing in a small stream. It was and is a mine and a town passed by time, its residents a congregation of generations of criminals and outcasts.”
And then Rostnikov knew why the Yak was telling him about the diamonds. He looked at the man as he spoke and saw a dreamy glaze in his eyes as if he were looking somewhere at something that didn’t exist. It was the first time Rostnikov had ever seen a hint of imagination in the Yak, and it had been brought on by a vision of diamonds or what diamonds could give him.
The Yak went silent. Moments passed. Rostnikov spoke.
“I see.”
But what I see is not what you are seeing, Rostnikov thought. You want me to deliver to you the key to control a crumbling diamond mine and the possibility that one more vein will be struck and bleed.
Rostnikov started to rise.
“Wait,” said the Yak, coming out of his reverie.
He turned his head not to see if Rostnikov had noticed his weakness. The Yak was certain that he had. The question was how he would handle this instant.
Rostnikov pretended not to have noticed.
“We are taki
ng on two other cases related to this investigation. Assign who you will to them and have those doing the investigation report to you and only you. You, in turn, will keep me informed on a daily basis.”
“From Siberia?”
“From Siberia. The connection of sorts between the cases,” said the Yak, “is not a coincidence.”
Two more folders appeared in the Yak’s right hand. He passed them to Rostnikov.
“The cases must be resolved in nine days,” said the Yak, “one week from Tuesday.”
Rostnikov looked for a sign in the man’s eyes or the movement of his fingers. There was none.
“You know who General Mihail Frankovich is?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
Frankovich was Director of the Division of Murder in the Investigative Directorate. The joke in Petrovka was that Frankovich was well qualified for the job because he was reported to have murdered at least two suspects who had refused to confess. Frankovich was not of the KGB old-boy network. He had risen from the ranks in the Army as his father had done before him.
“General Frankovich would like to incorporate the Office of Special Investigations into the Division of Murder,” said the Yak. “We have been too successful. This office has moved, at least in the eyes of some, from being a dark hole to being a small diamond.”
Rostnikov nodded.
“Nine days from now there will be a meeting of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Commission,” the Yak went on, carefully watching the emotionless face of his Chief Inspector. “General Frankovich will bid to take over this Office. It is possible he will succeed, unless . . .”
“You present evidence of a success so great that the General will have to withhold his bid,” said Rostnikov.
“Precisely,” said the Yak. “I do not intend for the Office of Special Investigations to be lost.”
That was not exactly the truth. The Yak’s plan was far more bold. He had prepared for it over the past four years, gathering information about the failures of the Division of Murder and the weaknesses of General Frankovich. The Yak had his own plan to take over the Division of Murder, employing concise reports of failure and private documents that might uncharitably but accurately be labeled blackmail.
“Frankovich has his own loyal staff,” the Yak continued. “It is unlikely he would retain the personnel now working in this Office. You and your detectives would be reassigned, as would I. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good. You have provided for me in the past, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. It is vital that you do so once more.”
The Yak had delivered what the Americans called “a pep talk.” It lacked the emotion one might expect at halftime from the coach of the Dynamo Soccer Team. The Yak may have felt emotion, but he was incapable of conveying it. Besides, Rostnikov didn’t need a pep talk.
While he did not know what the Yak’s plan was this time, he knew it was more than simple survival. One did not survive in Russia at the Yak’s level, particularly in the police hierarchy, just by protecting one’s rear. One had to tear a painful, bloody chunk out of the rear of the enemy as well.
While he did not welcome the prospect of losing his job, Porfiry Petrovich did not mind having a deadline, a clock ticking over his shoulder. He knew he had a tendency to sit back and listen rather than advance. He was a man of great curiosity. He was not in the least ambitious, which was one of the reasons Yaklovev trusted him, or came as close to trusting him as the Yak was capable of.
“That’s all,” said the Yak.
He was rubbing the thumb and a finger of each hand together as if he were about to count a stack of money. The movement was small. It didn’t escape Rostnikov.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov rose with difficulty, tucked the three file folders under his arm, and looked at the Yak. Their eyes met. There was a warning in the eyes of the man behind the desk under the photograph of Vladimir Putin. Rostnikov was to ask no more questions.
When Rostnikov had moved slowly across the room and out the door, Yaklovev removed from his desk drawer a more detailed copy of the reports he had given his Chief Inspector.
There were many things in the reports he had not mentioned, though he had included the tale of the ghost girl. It was part of the peasant fabric of lore that built up around every small town and most of the large ones throughout Russia. Russians could be ignorant and superstitious. It was one of the many weaknesses in the national psyche that a careful, ambitious man could exploit.
“I am of mixed minds about what I want you to do. Are you listening? You don’t look as if you are listening.”
The lean black man didn’t answer and didn’t look at Vladimir Kolokov. He stared straight ahead to the single dirty window in the concrete basement.
Kolokov was a man of average size and build, neither thin, nor fat, nor athletic. His hair was a mop of brown-yellow, his face a forty-three-year-old mask of indifference.
Kolokov was smoking an American cigarette. He had offered one to George Umbaway. George had refused.
Two of the other three Russians in the room were also smoking. The two lounged against the wall where George, were he to turn his eyes but slightly, would be looking directly at them. There was nothing of interest about the two men except that they might be called upon to kill George and his companions in another room. It was the fourth man who did frighten George. The man, Pau Montez, was the youngest of the quartet. He was lean and muscular, his neck thick. His head was shaved and he wore a permanent smile. Pau’s grandfather had fled Spain for a welcoming Russia when the Loyalists were defeated. Though desperately in need of volunteers, they had been happy to see the sadistic young man depart. This newest member of the Montez family seemed to have inherited that homicidal streak.
“You cannot stop your heart from beating,” said Kolokov, reaching down to place his right hand on George Umbaway’s chest. “It is a lie detector.”
Kolokov turned his head slightly to the right as if listening in the air for a heartbeat. Smoke curled into Kolokov’s eyes. He squinted.
“Remarkable. You might have a heart attack before I can get your answer. What is your answer, by the way? You’ve forgotten my question. Who supplies you with the diamonds, and when and where are you getting another delivery?”
George willed his heart to slow down. He was sweating even though it was cold in the room. He thought about his wife, Marie-Marie, and his children. For no reason he wondered, not for the first time, why his wife’s left arm had been refusing to function. She would need to be sent to England for evaluation and possible surgery. George trusted neither white nor black doctors in South Africa or Namibia or Botswana.
“What do I do with a man like this?” Vladimir said with exasperation, looking at the Spaniard for an answer he was certain he would not receive.
The Spaniard smiled.
“Alek, Bogdan?”
The two men in the corner stopped talking when they were addressed. The younger of the two, Alek, looked at the older for an answer and got none.
Kolokov shook his head.
“Then I will have to rely on my own resources. I want the information you have, the answers to my questions, but I am of two minds. I also want to torture you. I want to see the extent to which a man, or woman, will undergo agony before they are broken. I must admit that I’ve never had the opportunity to torture a black man before. I understand that black people have a very low level of tolerance for . . .”
“Just do it, Vlady,” Bogdan called out.
Kolokov spun around and flung his cigarette toward the man. Bogdan held up a protective arm and the perfectly flung missile bounced to the floor. Kolokov pointed a finger at the man and said, “Do not tell me what to do, ever. Suggest. Do not tell me.”
“But you . . . ,” Alek began and changed his mind.
The Spaniard was smiling more broadly, enjoying the exchange.
“You have made up my mind, African,” said Kolokov, fishing a fresh cigarette from his
shirt pocket and lighting it as he moved to a table against the wall where George could see something white next to a cardboard box.
Kolokov’s voice had risen.
Now George could see what was on the table and became truly afraid.
Kolokov turned back to George, adjusted the sleeves of his white surgical jacket, and said, “I wear this to keep the blood from my clothes, my body. And also, between us, it makes me feel like a doctor or a scientist doing important research, which, in a way, I am. If I am ever caught, I can give them vivid reports on the effectiveness of each session. All right, George, here is what we are going to do. It was a method used on my father by the NKVD. He survived. You may. He didn’t have the option of giving information or confessing to anything. They just wanted to torture him. Maybe it was a slow day. Are you hungry?”
Now George turned his eyes to the man who was either mad or pretending to be to frighten him.
“We’re going to feed you. We are going to put a feeding tube down your nose. Wait, I’ll show you.”
Kolokov moved to the cardboard box on the table and pulled out a coil of plastic tubing.
“I think it’s too thick,” Kolokov said with a sigh. “But it will have to do. When it was done to my father, blood gushed from his nose, but they kept pushing until the cartilage cracked. He couldn’t scream, not with the pipe in his throat. And breathing was . . . you can imagine. He remembered wheezing until the pipe was in his stomach. Then they . . . am I boring you?”
Kolokov leaned forward so that his eyes were looking directly into those of his prisoner.
“You should listen. It is interesting. Watch.”
He retrieved a screw-top jar from the cardboard box. It was filled with a thick liquid.
“Looks like shit, right? Don’t worry. It’s not. It is a healthy, if perhaps somewhat rancid, thick broth rich in carbohydrates and proteins. You’ll be a healthy man if you survive.”
Kolokov held the jar in front of George’s face. The liquid in it was a murky brown with small pieces of something languidly floating in it.
People Who Walk In Darkness (Inspector Rostnikov) Page 2