“I know Emil,” said Rostnikov.
“It will be a great inconvenience,” said Karpo, growing drowsy.
Rostnikov laughed. The sick woman prepared for surgery looked at him, as did a male nurse.
“A great inconvenience,” agreed Rostnikov. “I’ve asked Procurator Timofeyeva to assign us together permanently. You are too valuable an officer to lose over a disability. Many of us operate under disabilities. My leg…”
“I will be pleased to serve with you,” said Karpo, fighting sleep. “But there is something else. Something I have figured out that will be of value. How long will I be asleep from this procedure?”
“The doctor tells me it will be six or more hours before you can speak,” whispered Rostnikov.
“Too long,” said Karpo, his voice fading. Rostnikov had to lean forward to hear his words. “The sickle.”
“The sickle?”
“Yes,” said Karpo weakly, “the sickle. A rusty sickle and a rusty hammer. We thought it was political, but the hammer and sickle are more than a symbol. They are a symbol of something. The union of agriculture and labor. And you said Malenko was carrying a rusty scissors. Hammer, sickle, scissors. Tools, old farm tools. They are not political symbols. They are memories of his childhood. He was raised on a farm until he was ten, his father’s farm.”
“How can you remember such things?” Rostnikov shook his head.
“My job,” said Karpo, his voice fading. “My job.” And he was asleep.
Rostnikov moved away and took a doctor by the arm. The doctor was busy and glared at the inspector. But something in the heavy man’s eyes and the firmness of his grip made the doctor stop and pay attention.
“Is his life in danger?” asked Rostnikov softly.
“Yes,” said the doctor, who was dark and seemed foreign in some way. “But he will most likely survive. He is a very strong, determined man.”
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov, letting the doctor’s arm go.
Rostnikov left the hospital and got back into his waiting car. Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki turned on the engine and drove into the street.
“May I ask Chief Inspector, how Sergeant Karpo is?” said Dolguruki.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “He is improving.”
Ten minutes later Rostnikov was at the office of Sergei Malenko’s factory. It was a large factory with machines and a modest office, but Malenko was not in the office. His secretary, a young man, informed Rostnikov reluctantly that Malenko was at a meeting with some foreigners at the Praga Restaurant. Rostnikov was welcome to wait, but Rostnikov had no intention of waiting. Natasha Granovsky might still be alive. He went out of the factory and stepped into the silence of the street. It was only then that he realized how noisy the factory had been and understood why Sergei Malenko had been so slow to respond to him during the interview at his dacha. He was probably partly deaf. The price Malenko had paid for his success was mounting.
Rostnikov felt uncomfortable at the Praga Resturant. He did not normally go to resturants. Only once a year did he, his wife and Iosef go to a restaurant and that only on Iosef’s birthday. It had been delayed this year because Iosef had been unable to obtain leave at his birthday.
The waiter at the door greeted Rostnikov and asked him if he wanted a seat.
“No,” said Rostnikov, afraid that his leg would lock if he sat. “I am looking for Sergei Malenko. Police business. Tell him Inspector Rostnikov must see him.”
“Very good, Inspector,” said the man and walked away. Rostnikov stood in the small lobby, watching the lunch eaters and listening to the pleasant hum of soft conversation in the darkened dining room. Maybe he could afford to take Sarah and Iosef here. The extra weights could wait. He could make do for another year.
The waiter, a particularly thin man, came back with rapid step and came very close to Rostnikov.
“Comrade Malenko asks that you wait here. He will be done in no more than ten or fifteen minutes.”
“In ten or fifteen minutes, a fourteen-year-old girl can be dead,” said Rostnikov walking past the waiter and heading across the restaurant dining room toward the door from which the waiter had come after bringing Malenko’s message. He bumped into a chair protruding into the aisle, and a man with a dark suit and black eyes turned to say something and then changed his mind.
Rostnikov did not hesitate at the door behind which he heard voices. Nor did he knock. He pushed it open and found himself facing five men seated around a table. One of the men was Sergei Malenko, who stopped in mid-sentence and stood up angrily.
“You will have to wait, Inspector,” he said.
The table was set with a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, caviar, baked veal, and potatoes steaming in the well heated private room.
“I cannot wait,” he said firmly. “I am sorry, gentlemen.”
“These gentlemen cannot understand Russian,” Malenko said with a smile and a nod at the men.
“Good,” said Rostnikov. “I need some answers from you very quickly.”
“You will be sorry for this, Rostnikov,” Malenko said without losing his smile.
“Not as sorry as you will be if you fail to answer me.
“Ask your questions quickly and then leave,” said Malenko patiently.
“You lived on a farm before all this,” said Rostnikov.
“That was a long time ago,” said Malenko. “Eighteen, twenty years ago.”
“That was where your child was killed by your wife?”
“Yes,” said Malenko, unable to keep up his false front and glaring at the policeman.
“Where is that farm?”
“North of the city, beyond Druzhba. A farmer named Breask or something like that owns it. Why do you ask?”
“I think,” said Rostnikov, “that your son may be heading there. I think he may have kept some tools of yours from that farm and is now using them to kill people, kill people who he thinks betrayed him. Does that make sense to you?”
“No,” said Malenko, his dark face turning pale.
The four other men in the room looked at the two antagonists in confusion.
“He has a young girl with him,” said Rostnikov. “Give me complete directions for getting to the farm, and give them to me quickly.”
Rostnikov handed a notebook and pencil to Malenko, who sketched a map and handed it back to the policeman.
“Thank you. Would you like to come?”
“No,” said Malenko sitting back down. “I…no.”
Rostnikov turned and left the room.
Tkach and Zelach had found the abandoned car with the help of directions from Vera Alleyanovskya. Forty minutes later they found the trail of footprints in the snow. It was faint and had been obscured here and there by falling and drifting snow, but it could be followed.
“This is ridiculous,” mumbled Zelach an hour later. Their car had been left on the road behind Vera Alleyanovskya’s vehicle, and with each step they moved further and further from it.
“But necessary,” replied Tkach, moving forward.
An hour later they found the farmhouse where Malenko and the girl had stopped and they found the reluctant farmer.
“I’ll talk,” Tkach whispered to Zelach as they approached the man who stood in the door, axe in hand.
“Comrade,” shouted Tkach, letting a sob enter his voice. “We are looking for my little sister. She was taken by force by a man she doesn’t want to marry. We have reason to believe he brought her this way.”
“Go to the police,” the farmer said, fingering his axe.
“The police,” cried Tkach. “I want nothing to do with the police. This is a private matter, a matter of honor.”
“The police are trouble,” agreed the farmer looking suspiciously at Zelach.
“My brother,” Tkach explained.
The man nodded.
“The man looked a bad sort,” the farmer said. “Girl did look frightened. He asked me how to get to a village near here. Come in. I’ll tell you wher
e he went.”
“Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki,” sighed Rostnikov, “you are an outstanding driver. I applaud your skill under difficult conditions, but we can do the girl no good if we do not arrive at our destination.”
The police Volga had careened down the highways and back roads into the late afternoon. On one occasion the car had come very near overturning on a skid. On another occasion, a remarkably fat woman had to leap off the road in front of the car with a dexterity that made Rostnikov blink with wonder.
“I’m sorry, Inspector,” Dolguruki said, keeping his eyes on the road, “but I thought you told me to hurry.”
“Hurry, hurry,” sighed Rostnikov, waving his hand in the air.
Rostnikov was worried about the girl, true, but he was also worried about how he might explain the destruction of the automobile. His body and that of the driver could be repaired by doctors. Doctors in Moscow were good and there would be no cost. But to repair an automobile. Ah, thought, Rostnikov, that may be much more difficult.
With that thought, another car joined them on the narrow road and slid in front of them. Rostnikov’s driver hit his brakes and went into a skid that appeared certain to result in crash into the second car. Rostnikov sucked in his breath, braced himself with his good leg, and gripped the door handle. The second car had stalled in front of them, and slow motion took over Rostnikov’s consciousness. His car moved as if through water. The movement took the length of a war and the time of a sneeze, but ended without a collision.
Rostnikov and his driver leaped out to confront the other car’s occupants. There was no more than an inch or two between the cars.
“Tkach!” Rostnikov shouted, watching his breath form a cloud.
“Inspector!” shouted Tkach back as he stepped out of his car. Behind the young detective, Rostnikov could see the outline of Zelach. “We know the village where Malenko has taken the girl.”
“And you think I am just riding around out here to witness the magnificent efforts of farmers preparing their futures?” sighed the inspector.
“No, I—” began Tkach.
“Never mind,” Rostnikov interrupted. “Let’s turn your car and get it going in the right direction. “Zelach,” he shouted, “get behind the wheel. We’ll push.”
Rostnikov, Tkach, and the driver pushed the car as Zelach gently started the engine. Its rear was firmly locked in a bank of snow blocking the road.
“Out of the way,” Rostnikov shouted, pushing Tkach and Dolguruki. You, Zelach, out of the car.”
“You have an idea, Inspector?”
“I have a challenge,” Rostnikov grinned, but it was a grin without joy. Zelach scampered out of the car and joined them in the road. Far off the road was a house with a chimney puffing little clouds of grey smoke. Somewhere in the distance across the reaches of snow a cow bellowed, and on the road Rostnikov moved to the rear of the stalled car. He took off his gloves, rubbed his hands on his coat, concentrated, took three deep breaths, held the last and put his hands under the bumper. With knees bent and back straight, he began to lift, his face turning red with the effort, a dry chill freezing moisture on his nose. He imagined the extra weights he had been unable to purchase. He imagined himself at the park championships lifting for the first place medal, he imagined himself at the Olympic games breaking a world record, and he rose. He could feel the pressure in his groin and knew his bad leg was wobbling dangerously, but he rose. The rear of the car came up and he pushed forward, letting it go. The car bounced twice and rested free of the snow bank. Rostnikov gasped for air and tried to speak to cap his moment, but it was difficult to get the words out. Instead, he slumped forward and put one hand against the now free car and pulled in short gulps.
“Don’t…stand…Let’s get going.” He waved his hand violently at the three men who watched him. Dolguruki, the driver, was the first to respond. He hurried to his car. Tkach and Zelach moved quickly into their car, and Rostnikov stood up to allow them to pull away. As they started up the road, Rostnikov shuffled back to his Volga and got in the front next to Dolguruki.
“You are deceptively strong, Inspector,” said the driver starting the car. The car in front of them was clearly in sight.
“Is that a compliment?” asked Rostnikov, damning himself for being unable to catch his breath.
“Of course,” said the driver.
Rostnikov shrugged.
Fifteen minutes later, both cars pulled into the village of Svenilaslav. The village itself was only slightly larger than a small farm and consisted of one two-story village store, a government grain trading center and a small brick one-story building that served as the village center.
Inside the brick building, Andrei Froskerov, who had recently celebrated his eighty-first birthday, was trying to decide if he was going to steal one of the chairs from the meeting room. He had stolen one a year earlier and sold it ten miles away to an engineer, but Comrade Scort had looked at him suspiciously for months. Not having been caught had given Andrei Forskerov courage. Besides, the engineer had told him that he could use a matching chair. He might even pay a few hundred kopecks. Froskerov was alone in the building, as he often was. His task was to keep it clean, which he did, and to protect village property, which he did not do.
He had definitely decided to take the chair and had one hand on it when the three men burst into the room. One was a burly man with a limp and the other two were young, determined-looking men.
“I wasn’t taking it,” cried Froskerov, recognizing policemen when he saw them. “I was cleaning it.”
“Cleaning it?” asked Tkach.
“Yes,” said Froskerov, whipping a ragged cloth from his pocket and attacking the upholstered chair.
“That’s nice,” Rostnikov said softly. “You may continue to do that, old father, but we must know—”
“I’ve never taken anything from the village, from my country!” cried Froskerov as he vigorously worked at the material with his cloth. “I’d rather die, here on the spot: May God strike me down. Wait, there is no God anymore. Forgive me, I’m an old man, but I’m a good worker.”
Tkach looked at Zelach who looked at Rostnikov who spoke softly.
“Malenko.”
“Malenko,” agreed the old man.
“You remember Malenko?” Rostnikov went on. “You were in this village when he was a farmer.”
“Ha,” shouted the quivering old man. “I have always lived here. I’ve been here all my life except for the war. The Germans got me. I was a prisoner in some place in Poland. I have a scar.”
With this he threw his cloth on the table and lifted his shirt to reveal a ridged scar that went from his navel to his scrawny rib cage.
“You are a hero of the state,” said Rostnikov. “Malenko.”
“I knew him,” said the old man, tucking his shirt in.
“Where was his farm? Where is it? Who lives on it?”
“It is not his farm,” said Froskerov. “It went to the collective and then Max Rodnini. I didn’t think he should get it,” the old man whispered loudly. “He’s really a Hungarian, but no one asked me then and no one asks me now, and I am not one to give my advice to those who do not want it. Eighty years of experience should count for something.”
“He could be killing the girl right now,” Tkach whispered frantically.
Rostnikov put up a hand to quiet the detective.
“Killing? Who?” Froskerov said looking into the three faces in panic. “Rodnini, the Hungarian? I knew he’d kill that wife of his some day. I saw her hit him once with—”
“Father,” Rostnikov tried again. “You must tell us now, right now, how to get to Rodnini’s farm. You must tell us and we will go, or I must ask you what you were taking from here when we came in.”
“Taking, taking?” laughed the old man. “Me taking? Ha. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Rodnini. Now,” demanded Rostnikov.
“Down the road, to the right, second farm, the one with the broken truck
in the driveway.”
“Thank you, old father,” Rostnikov said, turning.
Froskerov looked puzzled.
“Are they rounding up Hungarians?” he asked, but he got no answer. The three policemen were out of the door. He thought he should inform someone about this curious visit but could think of no one to tell. The members of the village council were on their farms except for storekeeper Putsko, who was in Moscow picking up supplies. He would tell Putsko when he returned, if he could remember all of what had happened. He sat heavily in the chair that he had planned to steal and began working out the story of how Rodnini had murdered his wife and been carted away by three policemen who were rounding up Hungarians for a purge. Under the circumstances, he certainly could not steal the chair, at least not for another few days.
The sun was behind the cloud cover on its way down when the two cars stopped. They were several hundred yards from the farm and could clearly see the wreck of a truck in the driveway. The truck was a model Rostnikov had been taught to drive when he had been in the army, but he had never had the opportunity to get behind the wheel.
The meeting in the road was chilled by a rising wind across the fields that sent swirls of loose snow dancing on the packed, unbroken surface.
The two junior inspectors and the driver looked at Rostnikov, who was tempted to ask what they thought should be done. He could see by their faces, however, that they expected their superior, who could lift automobiles, to come up with a plan. Rostnikov had none.
“He is certainly here by now if he is coming,” he said, stalling.
Tkach nodded in agreement.
“If we go driving up to the farm, he could see us and kill the girl and the Rodninis,” he went on.
“So,” sighed Rostnikov. “We can’t simply sit here either. I will walk to the house. Malenko has never seen me. Perhaps he will take me for a neighbor. We can’t get too close or he will recognize the police cars. I’ll walk from here. Make a bundle out of things in the trunk, a light bundle but a big one. Maybe he will take me for a neighbor or a peddler.”
Dolguruki hurried to open the trunk of the car and prepare a bundle.
Death of a Dissident Page 17