Death of a Dissident

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Behind the door he could hear the shuffling of furniture, something heavy being moved and then the padding of footsteps to the door. A chain was pulled and a latch thrown before the door creaked open.

  Rostnikov pushed his way in and turned on the tall, thin grey man in a worn purple robe that failed to cover his white boney knees.

  “You are Simon Lvov?” Rostnikov barked.

  “Yes, I…”

  “I am Chief Inspector Rostnikov. You will sit, and I will sit, and you will answer some questions.”

  Lvov sat dutifully across from the policeman, who stared at him. Rostnikov felt a stirring in him to back off. The old man before him was a pathetic, drifting creature, showing none of the elusiveness of tongue or mind that Tkach had reported. Either something had changed him, or Tkach had badly misjudged the man, which was unlikely.

  “What did Malenko tell you?” he asked.

  “Malenko?”

  “Ilyusha Malenko. You saw him, met him. You know where he is hiding, what he is going to do. You can be put on trial for aiding a murderer.”

  Lvov pushed his glasses back on his nose, and a spasm rippled across his face.

  “He was going to kill me,” Lvov said. “I thought I didn’t care, but when the moment came, I cared very much.”

  “What did he say? Why didn’t he kill you? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said the old man. “He said he had to even things with Granovsky. That killing me would not do it.”

  “Even things?” Rostnikov asked. “What quarrel did he have with Granovsky?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lvov. “They were friends, more like—I don’t know. Ilyusha worshiped Alek, would have done anything for him. Then this.”

  “There has to be a reason,” Rostnikov insisted. “Why kill his friend and his own wife? Why—was there something between Granovsky and Malenko’s wife?” The idea seemed obvious and yet elusive. It depended totally on the association of the two murders for a motive. It meant, as Rostnikov was certain anyway, that Malenko was the sole murderer.

  “Perhaps,” shrugged Lvov.

  “Only perhaps?”

  “It is quite likely,” said Lvov quietly. “Aleksander was an articulate and brave leader, but he was in many ways less than an honorable man.”

  “It makes no sense,” said Rostnikov almost to himself. “If he caught them, why didn’t he kill them together, or her first? If she confessed, why did he kill Granovsky first? You see?”

  “No,” said Lvov, who clearly did not see.

  “Who told him about his wife and Granovsky, the man he worshipped like a father?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lvov. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No,” mused Rostnikov. “He said he had to make it even. That there were two of them. Perhaps he means to murder his father and stepmother.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Lvov, rising and moving slowly across the floor on thin white legs to prepare some tea.

  “Two of them,” Rostnikov repeated and then the image came into his mind. It was a pair of thin shadows, and then the light touched them, and they had faces and the faces were those of Sonya and Natasha Granovsky.

  He was back in the car in less than twenty seconds. The driver started the engine as soon as Rostnikov got in and shouted for him to hurry to Dimitry Ulanov Drive.

  The driver turned as if to speak, saw Rostnikov’s pale face, and said nothing.

  “Hurry, hurry,” urged the police inspector, and the driver hurried.

  He was the best driver Rostnikov had ever seen. They took corners, even still icy ones, without a skid and without a slowdown. His hands remained steady and he anticipated lights and pedestrians as he sped through the streets. The trip took no more than ten minutes.

  “Listen,” he told the driver as he got out. “We are looking for a man named Malenko, Ilyusha Malenko. He is twenty-eight and probably wearing a black coat. You don’t let anyone out of that door who even vaguely might be Malenko. You understand?”

  “I understand,” the driver said, getting out and unbuttoning his holster.

  “Good. I think he has killed three people and is quite dangerous. I would like him alive, but if that is not possible…You understand.”

  Rostnikov hurried into the hall and to the elevator, but a sign was hung on it, indicating that it was out of order. Rostnikov began the climb up the stairs. He tried to hurry, but his leg denied him. At the third floor, he had to rest. Two young teen-age boys hurried past the exhausted man and fell into silence until they were a floor below him, where they said something about him being drunk. Rostnikov forced himself up. By the sixth floor he was in pain and dragging his foot. It struck him only then that he had no gun with him. He seldom used one. It was not that he was against the use of weapons, but the need came up so seldom that he left his gun locked in a drawer in his office.

  There was no time to worry about it. He plunged down the hall, found the door, and knocked.

  “Mrs. Granovsky. Sonya Granovsky,” he cried.

  There was no answer. Rostnikov wasn’t sure of how strong the door was. In truth, at the moment, he wasn’t sure of how strong he was, but he planned to try. There was little room in the narrow corridor. He pushed himself against the wall opposite the door, placed his palms against the wall behind him, braced his bad foot and lifted his good one for a kick. He had taken two deep breaths and was about to kick, when he heard something behind the door. A movement. Something. He hesitated, stood up, and leaned forward to listen.

  “Is someone in there?” he called. Silence. “Is someone in there?”

  The door began to open, and the face of Sonya Granovsky appeared.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “It is me, Inspector Rostnikov. You remember me from the other night?”

  “I remember you.” She looked thin and ill, as if she were about to collapse.

  “May I come in?” he asked gently.

  “No,” she said. “I’m afraid I…”

  “I’ll have to insist,” he said as kindly as he could. She backed away and he entered carefully, ready.

  “Where is your daughter?” he asked.

  “Sleeping in the next room,” she said, folding her hands over her thin breasts and hugging herself as she sat in a wooden chair and failed to meet his eyes. There was something like the attitude of Simon Lvov about her.

  “Late to be sleeping, isn’t it?” he asked, taking a step toward the closed door.

  Sonya Granovsky stood up quickly and nervously, her right hand out to stop him.

  “No,” she said, her voice breaking. “She’s been upset since…all this. Please let her sleep.”

  Rostnikov turned from the door and supported himself on the edge of the sofa where he had first seen the two women. If something was in that room with which he had to deal, it would be best dealt with when his strength returned.

  “Have you seen Ilyusha Malenko recently?” Rostnikov tried.

  Sonya Granovsky collapsed back into the chair as if he had slapped her. Her head shook fiercely.

  “No, no, no,” she said, without looking up.

  “You have seen him,” Rostnikov repeated. “And you know what he has done.”

  “No,” she cried. “No.”

  “What is wrong here?” Rostnikov whispered moving away from the sofa toward the trembling woman. “Is he in there with your daughter?”

  Her head shook violently to deny it, but Rostnikov could take no more. He looked around for a weapon, settled for one of the wooden chairs, picked it up easily, and limped to the closed door.

  “No,” whimpered Sonya Granovsky, but Rostnikov did not hesitate. He threw his shoulder into the door, hoping that Malenko was right behind it listening and would be taken by surprise. The surprise was Rostnikov’s. He hurtled into the room and rolled onto the bed and against the wall. He righted himself as quickly as he could, prepared for an attack but nothing came. Sunlight came through the window, and he could see no one but himself in a wall mirror, lo
oking foolish on the floor with a chair cradled in his arms. He pulled himself up as Sonya Granovsky entered the room.

  “Where is your daughter, Sonya Granovsky?” he demanded.

  “He took her,” she said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  VIKTOR SHISHKO SAT AT HIS German-made typewriter in the office of the Moscow Pravda, turning the bit of information given him by Comrade Ivanov into a story. It was an important story dealing with the swift apprehension of the killer of Aleksander Granovsky. Viktor Shishko had been a reporter in Moscow for more than thirty years and had covered only two murder stories. He was well aware that dozens of murders took place every day in and around Moscow, but few of them were made known to anyone but the police and the people involved. Occasionally, though, there was a purpose to be served by publicity. Viktor Shishko found it easy to guess what the purpose was in this case, but he had no intention of sharing his conjecture with anyone else. When the story was finished, he would read it to Comrade Ivanov, who in turn would read it to someone who served the Party as liaison with the several investigatory agencies. Viktor had been through it all before and knew that the story would come back with small changes, cautious wording, though he himself was doing his best to be careful and anticipate the reason for the publication of the story.

  Other writers, editors, and staff people, men and women, bustled past Viktor as he composed his short story:

  Aleksander Granovsky, 42, former professor of history at Moscow University, was murdered last night by a cab driver with whom he had frequently quarreled. The cab driver, Mikel Vonovich, 39, wounded a police officer attempting to apprehend him. Trial will be held on the sixth of the month.

  Shishko examined his brief story with satisfaction. He had omitted Granovsky’s reputation as a dissident and the fact that Granovsky was due to go on trial the morning after his death. He had also moved the date of Granovsky’s murder up one day to show how swiftly the police had caught the murderer. As an extra precaution, he had not included information about Vonovich’s black market activity. It was not his function to anticipate the political consequences of such things. Therefore, he did not include them. If the party liaison wanted those things in for good reason, then he or she could put them in.

  As for the rest—the shooting of the young man in the liquor store by Sasha Tkach; the shooting of the police officer by the dead boy; Emil Karpo’s arm; Malenko’s murder of his wife and a cab driver and the kidnapping of the dissident’s daughter—Viktor Shishko knew nothing. And neither, therefore, would the people of Moscow.

  Dark clouds had come back over Moscow, promising more snow. Through Anna Timofeyeva’s window, Rostnikov watched the clouds push their way in front of the feeble sun. Rostnikov was in a bad mood.

  “And?” asked Procurator Timofeyeva, looking particularly dyspeptic.

  “And, Ilyusha Malenko attempted to rape Sonya Granovsky,” he said.

  “Attempted?”

  “He was unable to do so.”

  “She resisted?”

  “No, she agreed to be quiet so as not to disturb her daughter sleeping in the next room, but Malenko could not consummate the action,” Rostnikov said carefully. He had no idea what Procurator Timofeyeva thought about sex as a personal act or a potentially criminal one. Surely, she had been involved in enough cases to have an opinion.

  “Then?”

  “Yes, then,” Rostnikov went on, “he got angry. He went in and got the girl and said he was taking her with him. That he would be back for the mother when he had given the daughter what justice demanded.”

  “How old is the girl?” Timofeyeva asked, looking down at her notes for an answer.

  “Fourteen,” said Rostnikov. “Sonya Granovsky was told that if she mentioned what had happened, he would kill the girl, which he probably intends to do anyway.”

  “But he might not?”

  “He might not,” Rostnikov agreed.

  There was silence in the room for a few seconds and then the distant rumbling of thunder. The room had grown quite dark, and Anna Timofeyeva rose to turn on the lights.

  “And Malenko said to her that he had killed her husband?”

  “That is what he said.”

  “He could have been lying,” she went on, moving to her desk again. “He knew Granovsky was dead. He had killed his wife.”

  “Possible, of course,” agreed Rostnikov. “Perhaps when we find him we can discover more.”

  “Awkward, very awkward,” Anna Timofeyeva said between clenched teeth. Her breathing was heavy now, troubled. “What are you doing to find him?”

  “We are trying to find out how he could get wherever he is through the streets of Moscow holding a crying young girl at the point of a scissors without anyone noticing.”

  “He had an accomplice,” tried the procurator, opening her desk drawer to search for something. She found a small bottle of pills Rostnikov had never seen.

  “Possible again, but not likely. It is more reasonable to suppose that he has also kidnapped the driver of a car, has stolen a car or has taken a cab and convinced the driver that nothing was amiss. I have some men checking on cabs, seeing if any cars have been reported missing. If he kidnapped a driver, it might be tomorrow before we find out about it if a relative calls the person in as missing.”

  “And meanwhile?” asked Timofeyeva, gulping down two white pills and ignoring Rostnikov’s look of sympathy.

  “I have a man guarding Sonya Granovsky’s apartment, another man watching the house of Malenko’s father. I’ve taken the liberty of doing all of this in your name, comrade.”

  She waved a thick hand to indicate that it was, of course, all right to do so.

  “The Procurator General is almost at the end of his term,” said Anna Timofeyeva softly. “Did you know that, Porfiry?”

  “I was aware,” he said. He wondered if the pills she had taken were for pain and, if so, if they would help to relieve the agony in his leg. The run up the stairs to the Granovsky apartment would be something to regret for days, maybe long enough to ruin his training and end any hope of the park competition.

  “He would like to be reappointed,” she went on. “It would be unprecedented to have such a second appointment. It would be very much to my advantage to have him reappointed, Porfiry. And if it is to my advantage, it is to yours. Do you understand?”

  “I am to be discreet about my investigation,” he said.

  “I needn’t tell you that my interests are not selfish,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose, an act which, Rostnikov noticed, she did more and more frequently. “The Procurator is a good man, a good Party member, a just man. If he remains in office, we can continue our work as we have.”

  “It will be borne in mind.”

  “Go, Porfiry, and report to me when you know anything, anything at all. I will be right here through the night. And one more thing.”

  “Yes,” grunted Rostnikov as he forced himself out of the chair.

  “I would prefer that you reserve your maudlin sympathy when you come in here. Some might find it touching, but I find your concern merely burdensome. For example, I have of course noticed the extreme pain you are in from your leg. But my feeling about it must be put aside for the sake of our efficient functioning. We have tasks which must come before human weakness. We have goals for a better future.”

  “I agree,” said Rostnikov, limping to the door.

  “As soon as you hear anything,” she said, pulling a thick folder in front of her.

  Rostnikov went out the door thinking that Anna Timofeyeva and Sergei Malenko represented perfectly opposing wills. Malenko was a successful capitalist within a socialist country. He was the living evidence, an alternative, a corrupt alternative, perhaps, but one which refused to go away. Anna Timofeyeva labored for a Utopia free of Malenkos, elder and younger, free of dissent, free of poverty. In his deepest heart, Rostnikov was confident that neither her world nor the world of Sergei Malenko would ever triumph. No Utopia had ever surviv
ed; perhaps none was desirable. Man had evolved into a creature who lived in constant tension. Utopias might destroy him. And besides, in a perfect world there would be no room for the police.

  It took forever to get back to his own office, where Sasha Tkach sat, his hair disheveled, his coat open. The young man slumped in the chair across the desk and didn’t even fully turn to face Rostnikov.

  “Any news from the cab investigation?” Rostnikov asked, easing himself into his chair and feeling the pain rush through his leg as he changed position. Rostnikov wondered if the German who had shot him in 1941 was still alive somewhere and if the German was walking on two whole legs. Rostnikov did not like Germans, even East Germans. They weren’t to be trusted.

  “Nothing,” said Tkach.

  “Stolen cars, kidnappings, missing persons?”

  “Nothing,” said Tkach, looking down at his thumbs. Rostnikov leaned over to see what was so interesting about Tkach’s thumbs, but could see nothing.

  “You have something on your mind, Sasha,” Rostnikov sighed.

  “I think I should be given…I should have less responsible assignments until I can prove myself,” he said. “I’ve bungled all of this badly.”

  “You have,” agreed Rostnikov. “To use the terms of hockey, you have allowed as many goals as you have scored.”

  “Yes. Had I remembered that the cab driver had been killed near Petro Street, I could have prevented the murder of Marie Malenko. Had I not lost Simon Lvov, he would have led me to Ilyusha Malenko and he would not have kidnapped the girl.”

  “I know,” said Rostnikov. Tkach looked at him, waiting for further comment.

  “Is that all you can say?” asked Tkach more in a plea than anger.

  “What more can I say? You made mistakes. I am not your father. I can’t forgive you for your mistakes, neither will I sit here brooding on them. You have a job. You do it. Sometimes things go right. Sometimes they go wrong. If we demoted every police officer who made major mistakes, there would be no senior officers left. You have many inadequacies as an investigator, Sasha, perhaps even more than I, but I think, frankly, that we are the best available. So let’s stop worrying about the past and start considering the present and future. Let’s begin by your getting me half a dozen aspirin and a pot of tea.”