People Who Walk In Darkness (Inspector Rostnikov)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  She yearned for a sausage, even a small one. She had been watching her weight for months and she was sure, though he denied it, Iosef was also watching her weight.

  He said that he loved her just the way she was, but when she pressed him about her size, he had admitted that she might be able to fit in clothing more svelte were she to shed a few pounds. Shed a few pounds. He had said it as if it were as easy as taking off one’s shoes. “Svelte” was not a descriptive term for Elena. Full-bodied was much more accurate. Her bones would not allow for svelte as they had not allowed her mother, aunt, or grandmothers a leaner frame.

  There was no way Elena Timofeyeva would or could ever look like Oxana Balakona or Rochelle Tanquay.

  In half an hour she was due in Jan Pendowski’s office for what she was certain would be a wild goose chase across Kiev in search of Oxana Balakona. She had agreed to let Sasha see Maya and the children instead of coming with her.

  The primary problem with being alone to spend the better part of a day with Pendowski was that he was certain to make sexual overtures unless she did something forceful. She was not flattered by the possibility of his advances. He seemed to be in very good condition. He made that clear by wearing his sleeves rolled up to display his muscles and his shirt unbuttoned one button to show just a bit of chest. He was not an oaf, and she could see how some women might find him interesting. Elena found him wearisome, however. The man was a walking unsatisfied penis.

  The one thing she had decided was that if he placed a hand on her once, she would remove it. If he placed a hand on her twice, he would hit the floor with a sudden and painful thud. She hoped, if that happened, there were many people around to watch, and that of the many people around to watch, police officers would be preferable.

  She checked her watch and went looking for the junior diplomat to ask him if there was a place nearby, perhaps a cart or stand, where she could buy a sausage sandwich.

  Iosef and Zelach were jostled forward by the crowd, wedged in between two bearded priests wielding crosses like bludgeons and crying out against specified and unspecified blasphemy. Iosef wondered where these men had been for the almost seventy godless years of Communism.

  It was difficult in the mélange of bodies to remain upright, to keep from getting herded by the police against the wall behind the tomb, and also to watch the two Africans, who were running from the scene.

  The screaming woman with the bullhorn was at Zelach’s side now, as the two policemen tried to make their way through the crowd to the grass beyond the path. Zelach reached up and turned a knob on the bullhorn, sending out a screech that brought winces to the faces of police, gay mourners, and the angry mob. Then the bullhorn went silent. The screaming woman had not noticed Zelach’s move, but a babushka had and shouted, “That one. He turned it off.” She was pointing at Zelach.

  Iosef also shouted and pointed at a nearby tall black shirt.

  “Him,” he said. “I saw him too.”

  A few in the crowd reached for the protesting black shirt. Zelach and Iosef made a lunge through a small opening in the crowd and arrived in the open, just missing a baton swung by a particularly large policeman.

  “Police,” Iosef said, pulling out his identification and showing it to the large slashing policeman who was in no mood or condition to examine identification.

  Iosef and Zelach ran. The large policeman turned back on the crowd.

  “We are the police,” Zelach said, panting.

  “Policemen have been known to be injured by mobs and each other,” said Iosef. “Which way did they go?”

  “The mob? They are right . . .”

  “The Africans.”

  “There,” said Zelach, pointing.

  “You see them?”

  “They were heading for Red Square.”

  Iosef nodded and started in pursuit with Zelach right behind.

  “They will get lost in the crowd,” said Zelach.

  “Two black men? One tall and thin, the other short and round?”

  “It is possible.”

  “It is possible,” said Iosef, who began laughing as they ran.

  “Is this funny?” asked Zelach, barely able to keep up.

  “Forgive me, Zelach. The Rostnikovs have a peculiar sense of humor.”

  Which, thought Zelach, is better than having no sense of humor, which is the legacy of both sides of my family.

  “There,” gasped Zelach, trying to catch his breath.

  Iosef saw them in the crowd, just about to hurry through the Metro station entrance.

  “Slow, now,” said Iosef.

  It was a command Zelach has happy to hear.

  Iosef was hoping that the two men they were trying to catch would also slow down. They had no reason to believe they were being followed. If the policemen hurried, they might be spotted. If they were too slow, they might well lose their quarry.

  Biko and Laurence had to slow down. They had no magnetic Metro cards. They had to stop at the booth and pay their fares, pointing to the map of stations on the wall. Neither man commanded more than a short supply of Russian.

  “Now what?” they both said at almost the same instant, walking toward their platform.

  They walked through the palatial Metro station, past glittering statues and brightly painted ceilings, unsure of what their next step might be or how they might reconnect with the Russians who had James Harumbaki.

  The loudspeaker announced the arrival of a train in Russian. It meant nothing to the two men, who were trying to decipher the name of the station on the wall. They were heading back to the only neighborhood in the city where they were likely to reach other Africans, particularly Botswanans.

  They looked blankly at the station map and got on the first train that arrived, hoping that they had read the map correctly.

  Their weapons were under their coats in leather and cloth slings designed by James Harumbaki. It was possible to fire simply by reaching under the coat, tilting the weapon, and firing while it was still in the sling. Biko had given serious consideration to doing just that when he saw the insane crowd moving in their direction in the park.

  They were living in a nation of near madness.

  Biko and Laurence sat in the almost empty late evening car of the Metro as far from others as they could. Across from them on a seat lay a German shepherd, asleep. There was no human who looked like an owner nearby. Laurence was particularly fond of dogs and wanted to move across and carefully offer his hand. The dog did not seem to belong to anyone. Maybe they could take it with them. Dogs had a calming effect on him, and he harbored a very slight feeling of guilt about the three times not long ago in Somalia when he had eaten the meat of scrawny dogs.

  Farther down, three Russians were sprawled on the seat. They were drunk. One man had his head in the lap of a second. The third lay by himself, eyes open, about to slip to the floor.

  As the car doors began to close, a large bald man holding a cloth to the back of his head got in, glanced at Biko and Laurence, and sat at the far end of the car.

  The train moved out of the station, and a Russian voice announced the next station.

  The bald man, Pau Montez, did not look directly at the Africans, and in the next car Iosef and Zelach sat doing their best not to be seen by the desperate Biko and Laurence.

  “Do you know why I pace like this?” asked Kolokov without stopping.

  James Harumbaki was not interested in the question but he waited for an answer. He was seated at a table, the chessboard before him. He was not tied, and he considered, since the large bald man was not present, that it might be possible to run across the room, throw open the door, dash through the house, and, once in the open, make a dash over the pile of rubbish and into the partial cover of the trees. He had gauged all this. It might be possible, but it was unlikely to succeed. James Harumbaki’s legs were weak. One eye was almost closed. He felt slightly dizzy. And there were two others in the room, silent Russians, one of whom, though he looked quite out
of shape, was close to the door. Better to wait for a more promising opportunity.

  “Do you know why I pace?” Kolokov repeated, smoking as he walked a bit faster across the room.

  James Harumbaki’s lower lip was swollen where Kolokov had punched him.

  The room smelled of sweat, tobacco, and sour dampness. James Harumbaki would have been sick to his stomach even if Kolokov had not punched his belly.

  “No, I do not,” said James Harumbaki.

  “Because, it helps me think, think, think.”

  With each “think” Kolokov had tapped the side of his head with a distinct thwack.

  James Harumbaki nodded his understanding.

  “I am not surrounded by a council of great minds,” Kolokov said, looking at his two cohorts who provided no response. “I would like to have at least one person I can count on to use his head for something besides a battering ram. You know what I mean?”

  James Harumbaki croaked a “yes.”

  As a matter of fact, he did know what it was like to be surrounded by people who could not think. He wondered what resources Patrice, Biko, and Laurence were calling upon to replace his leadership. His life depended on what they were going to do and, while he did not doubt their determination, loyalty, or courage, he had no illusions about their intellect.

  He smiled. Two gangs of incompetents led by a mad Russian and a Botswanan who really wanted to be a baker of fine cakes.

  “This is funny?” asked Kolokov.

  “No,” said James Harumbaki. “I was just thinking that you are clearly correct in your assessment of the situation. We Africans smile at different things than do Russians.”

  Kolokov decided to ignore his hostage’s reply.

  James Harumbaki decided that he would have to control himself to keep from beating the Russian in six or eight moves when the man stopped pacing and decided to play another game of chess.

  “All the great . . . ” Kolokov began when the door opened.

  The large bald man entered and said, “You will not believe this.”

  Kolokov had stopped pacing.

  “I would believe that Putin has become a Jew,” Kolokov said. “I would believe that the sun is about to stop shining. I would believe you have seen the ghost of Lenin. What can you possibly say that I would not believe? What are you doing here? You are supposed to be waiting for us at the War Memorial. You are supposed to be looking for the Africans.”

  “There was a demonstration at the War Memorial,” said the bald man. “Faggots were putting flowers on the tomb.”

  “How patriotic,” said Kolokov.

  “Then there were lots of people. Men, boys, old women, priests. They came throwing eggs, water, stones. I got hit. Look.”

  He turned his head to reveal a bloody opening that almost certainly needed stitches and certainly would not be getting them.

  “The police came.”

  “Yes, they beat the queers,” said Kolokov, wanting the bald man to get to the point.

  “No, they beat the others, the men, the women, the priests . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” said Kolokov. “Were the Africans there?”

  “Yes, there were two of them. They ran away. I think some of the crowd was chasing them. I followed them. They got on the Metro.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “To a bar, a bar full of blacks. I think they may have noticed me.”

  One of the other two men made a sound that may have been a laugh. The bald man gave him a warning look.

  “How could they possibly notice you?” Kolokov said. “A big, bald white man with a gushing wound on his head. They must have had to employ very keen powers of observation honed from a hundred generations of hunting in the jungle. They will not be coming to the memorial to make the exchange.”

  “I have the phone number of the cafe,” said the bald man.

  Kolokov scratched his neck, and the bald man handed him a torn corner from a newspaper.

  “You know the cafe they went to?”

  The question was addressed to James Harumbaki.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You will call them and I will tell you a new place for the exchange,” said Kolokov.

  James Harumbaki said nothing.

  “There is one more thing,” said the bald man.

  Kolokov had been leaning forward so that his face was only inches from his hostage.

  “And what is that?” asked Kolokov, still looking at James Harumbaki.

  “There were two other people following them. I think they were policemen.”

  Kolokov clasped his hands together, then clapped once and stood up.

  “Go take care of your head,” he said calmly. “We will all have a drink from the bottle of vodka which Bogdan, who laughs in the corner, will pour for us all. I will then play another game of chess with our valuable guest and decide how we will engage our endgame with his friends and the police.”

  He sat across from James Harumbaki.

  “It will be interesting, and when it is over either we will have millions in diamonds or this will be the last game of chess for our guest.”

  It was at this point, as the mad Russian waited for him to set up the pieces on the board, that James Harumbaki decided that it was not the time or place to beat his captor.

  The bodies of the two Africans had been replaced on Paulinin’s laboratory table by two bodies that had been flown in from some idiotic place in Siberia.

  Rostnikov had called, inquired about the condition and tranquility of his leg, and asked that the examination of the bodies he had sent be done as soon as possible.

  One reason, Rostnikov said, was that the Canadian government wanted the body of the younger man.

  And that was why Paulinin had turned on the CD of Peter Illyich Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations for Cello and Orchestra, switched on the bright overheads, scratched his head, adjusted his glasses, scrubbed his hands, and made a decision. In the privacy of his laboratory, he would perform a dual autopsy.

  Before doing so, however, he consulted with the two dead men as he laid out his instruments.

  “You do not mind?” he asked.

  “No, why should we,” said the old man, naked on the table. “We are dead. Are you not going to ask who killed us?”

  “Would you tell me?” asked Paulinin, scalpel in hand, bending over the pale corpse of the Canadian.

  “No,” said the old man. “You will have to discover that for yourself.”

  “You agree?” he asked the Canadian as he made an incision to open wide the dark, almost blue, clotted wound in his chest, which had probably been the cause of death.

  “Of course,” said the Canadian in perfect Russian.

  Paulinin paused, long, sharp blade inserted deeply in flesh, as a favorite cello solo called out from the shadows where the speakers rested. The beauty of the passage almost brought him to tears.

  Paulinin knew full well that neither dead man could talk, that the conversation was completely within his mind. Often Paulinin would get carried away by his conversations with the dead and forget for a while that the dead could not really speak. He likened his experience to that of a writer who carries on conversations with characters who do not exist, or of people watching a movie who both believe and disbelieve that what they are seeing is really taking place.

  “Of course,” he said, pushing two fingers deeply into the wound, “one would have to be insane to believe that what was happening in a movie was really taking place, but at the same time, if the movie experience was working, the viewer would . . . what have I found?”

  “What?” asked the Canadian.

  “What?” asked the old man on the table behind Paulinin.

  Paulinin took his bloody fingers from the wound, picked up a foot-long instrument with a pincer at the end, and inserted it into the wound where his fingers had been.

  It took him a difficult minute or so of probing before he realized that he had pushed that which he sought into the auricl
e of the heart.

  Tchaikovsky, orchestra, and plaintive cello urged him on.

  He found what he was looking for and slowly, carefully, to keep from losing it, removed the long, thin instrument and held it up to the light. The object was small—tiny actually—a piece of metal with a determined clot of blood clinging to it.

  He dropped the bit of metal into a kidney-shaped porcelain receptacle.

  “What is it?” asked the Canadian. “It was in me. I have a right to know.”

  “He does not know yet what it is,” said the old Russian.

  “Let us know when you find out,” said the Canadian.

  “I will,” Paulinin promised, “but before I examine it, I must probe the surfaces and recesses of your bodies for more treasures.”

  “We will not stop you,” said the old man.

  “I am certain you will not,” said Paulinin, turning his attention and gleaming instruments on the old man.

  “It is good to have a spotter who knows what he is doing,” said Viktor Panin.

  He was lying on his back on the bench in the well-equipped weight room. His hands were heavily chalked. Over his blue sweatshorts and a matching cutoff shirt that revealed his taut, full muscles, Viktor wore a leather harness pulled tightly to guard against hernia.

  Rostnikov, wearing a full long-sleeved gray sweatsuit, stood at the head of the bench. The bar, with massive black disks weighing more than four hundred pounds, rested in the cradle of the matching upright thick round steel bars that straddled the bench. It was unlikely that Rostnikov, even with a rush of adrenaline, could hold the weight should Panin begin to falter, an eventuality that was quite unlikely.

  “A spotter one can count on,” said Panin, “gives one confidence.”

  Panin was looking up at the bar, gauging it, his strength, and his resolve, not seeing Porfiry Petrovich beyond that bar.

  He placed both palms against the bar and worked his fingers around it. Rostnikov understood the meditative moment, the merging of hands, fingers, arms, body, mind, and the weight of iron—solid iron.