People Who Walk In Darkness ir-15

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “They don’t have the diamonds,” Rostnikov said, watching the cloud slowly morph into something else he could not yet identify.

  “They could have them and plan to simply give the people who have the hostage African the fake diamonds,” said Iosef.

  “Then they would not value the hostage’s life very highly.”

  “But the kidnappers probably plan to kill him anyway,” said Iosef. “They are likely to know that.”

  “There is little doubt of that. So perhaps your two Botswanans plan to start a small war at the War Memorial in the hope of saving their friend.”

  “Yes, I agree,” said Iosef. “And you suggest?”

  “Caution and backup. How is Zelach?”

  “A man will be sure to meet at least once in his life something that is unlike anything he had happened to see before.”

  “Chekov?”

  “Gogol,” said Iosef. “Zelach is that thing.”

  “Be careful,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “I will be. Any other advice?”

  “Marry Elena if she will still have you. You asked for my advice.”

  “I did,” Iosef said. “Anything else I should know?”

  “You have an uncle.”

  “An uncle?”

  “He is here in Siberia.”

  “What better place for an uncle,” Iosef said, knowing his father’s sense of humor.

  “You have cousins too. I will tell you more when I see you. Perhaps I can persuade him to visit Moscow if I do not have to arrest him for murder.”

  “He is a suspect, this uncle?”

  “A suspect with definite credentials. Let us talk again after the war at the War Memorial.”

  Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov hung up and reached awkwardly to place the phone back in its cradle on the night table.

  He forced himself up, letting his leg hang over the side of the bed. He had a date with Viktor Panin to lift weights. Panin was also a suspect. There were few who were not. After lifting and showering, Rostnikov would meet with more little girls and Yevgeniy Zuyev, the mayor of Devochka, another suspect. The total number of suspects in the mining town was two hundred eleven men, two hundred eighteen women, and one hundred sixty-one school-age boys and girls. Somehow Rostnikov, who was slowly putting on his favorite gray sweatsuit, did not believe he would have to talk to all these people.

  Speaking softly to his artificial leg, he put it on and decided he would wait for Emil Karpo’s report on the grandfather who was preparing for invasion by the forces of Nippon.

  It was not the girl Lillita’s grandfather, Karpo discovered. It was her great-grandfather, Gennadi Ivanov. He was indeed alone in a small room into which he welcomed Karpo after the detective identified himself.

  Karpo estimated that the man was at least ninety years old. He was surprisingly erect and tall, but so thin that he had to constantly adjust the thick suspenders over his sloping shoulders.

  There was a bed in a corner, a dresser, and a large table cluttered with the exposed insides of a rifle. Along one wall was a rack of rifles and a case of handguns behind glass doors.

  “No ammunition,” said the old man, offering a chair.

  He sat on a bench that ran the length of the table.

  “I will be given the ammunition when the Japanese come,” he said. “At least that is what they tell me, have been telling me for tens of years. They do not believe the attack is coming. Their fathers did not believe. I wish they were right, but they are not. They were repulsed at Vladivostok by sea and in Korea by land in 1904. My father fought them off.”

  The old man wore a well trimmed white beard and a matching head of hair. He eyed the still-standing detective and made a decision.

  “I know where they keep the ammunition. I can just walk over to Fedya Rostnikov’s office, shoot the lock off, and arm forty men.”

  “But you have no ammunition to shoot the lock off,” said Karpo.

  The old man smiled knowingly, showing a mouth that had long since lost most of its teeth.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. Do you have any idea what this is?” he asked, pointing at the dismantled weapon on the table in front of him.

  “A Mosin-Nagent rifle,” said Karpo. “It fires a 7.62 × 54 rimmed cartridge. Five shot bolt action.”

  “Can hit a Japanese soldier at five hundred yards,” said the old man. “This one was used in the war against Finland. Those Finns could fight. Better than the Japanese.”

  He picked up a small metal part from the table and squinted at it as he held it up.

  “I am here to talk about the mine,” said Karpo.

  “Talk.”

  “There are hidden caves in the mine. Small caves that children can crawl through.”

  “Is that a question?” asked the old man.

  “It is.”

  “Yes there are,” Ivanov said, still looking at the small part as if it held a secret.

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “Three of them, but they have all been covered by collapsing walls. Children were killed. One ghost came from the crushed rocks and bits of diamond, the little girl with the lantern.”

  “You believe in the ghost girl?”

  “I saw her twice.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t remember. I was a young man. It was just before we were warned for the first time that the Japanese might be on the way.”

  “You don’t like the Japanese,” said Karpo.

  “I like the Japanese very much,” said Ivanov, trying to take his eyes from the little machined part. “Very smart. Women are pretty. Children are beautiful. I just do not want them to take over all of Russia and turn us into Buddhists and slaves.”

  “Could you draw me a map of where the small caves are?”

  “No one believes me about the caves. Why do you?”

  “I did not say I believe you,” said Karpo. “Nor do I not believe you.”

  “I’ll draw it in exchange for a bullet for this gun,” the old man said.

  “You shall have it,” said Karpo, reasonably confident he could provide the man with a bullet that would be guaranteed not to work or explode the gun in his hands.

  “If I were not too old, I would take you to the caves,” the old man said.

  “I understand. There is a man named Boris who takes people into the mine. Could he find the caves using your map?”

  “Boris? Stupid boy, but he knows the mine. Yes, he can do it. Are you going in there?”

  “I think so.”

  “Watch out for the ghost girl. If you hear her sing and you see her, your chances of being found dead are very good.”

  “It is a risk I will take.”

  “My bullet.”

  “I will get it for you.”

  “When is he coming home?” asked Nina.

  Since her sister was two years older, Nina expected Laura to have answers to all of her questions, and she usually did.

  “Soon,” said Laura.

  The girls were facing each other under the blanket on the makeshift bed on the floor. They were whispering in the darkness punctuated only by the light from the lampposts beyond the kitchen window.

  “What is soon?”

  “Three days,” Laura said with confidence and no certain knowledge.

  “What is he doing? Is he shooting someone bad?”

  “No. The creepy man does the killing.”

  “I like him,” said Nina. “I do not think he is creepy.”

  “I do not think he is either, but other people do.”

  “Sarah and Grandmother Galina?”

  “I do not know.”

  “I shall ask them. Will Porfiry Petrovich bring us anything from Siberia?”

  “There is nothing to bring from Siberia,” said Laura. “There is nothing there but snow and reindeer.”

  “When he comes back, he will fix Mrs. Dudenya’s pipes.”

  “Yes,” said Laura. “When I grow up, I shall be a plumber.”

  “
When I grow up,” said Nina, “I will be a policeman.”

  “Here is the list,” said Fyodor Rostnikov, handing a printed sheet to Porfiry Petrovich.

  They were seated on white folding chairs outside the apartment complex facing the mine, which was closed. It was a crime scene.

  Porfiry Petrovich wore his lined overcoat and a black wool watch cap. Fyodor Andreiovich wore a dark blue pea coat and a black fur hat. In the summer, the temperature could reach ninety degrees Fahrenheit for a few days, but in the winter, which was approaching, the temperature averaged negative fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit. At the moment the temperature hovered somewhere around thirty degrees Fahrenheit, which meant that they both considered this a balmy day, nearly perfect for enjoying the afternoon.

  Beyond the thick wall of trees that stretched as far to the left and right as Rostnikov could see were mountains and the Vitim River and Lake Baykal, the world’s deepest lake. The city of Irkutsk was somewhere out there.

  Porfiry Petrovich looked down at the short list of names Fyodor had given him. They were the names of all senior employees of the mining company who were allowed to enter the mine during the six-hour off shift, which was always between 11:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m. In addition to the Devochka Council members, there were two resident mining engineers. It was a short list made even shorter by the murder of board member Anatoliy Lebedev.

  “As you will see if you go to the mine. .”

  “I will go to the mine,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “As you will see,” Fyodor went on, “there is a steel night fence which covers the only mine entrance. The door in the fence can only be opened with key cards.”

  Fyodor reached into the pocket of his jacket and extracted two large naval oranges. He handed one to Porfiry Petrovich who nodded his thanks.

  “And who provides these cards?” Rostnikov asked as he carefully began to peel the orange. It was firm and ripe. He brought it to his nose to smell. The world was suddenly engulfed in an orange miasma.

  “I do,” said Fyodor.

  “And where were you on the shifts when the Canadian and Lebedev were killed?”

  Fyodor allowed himself a knowing, if small, smile.

  “Home, which, you will see when you come for dinner tonight, is over there: Building Two, ground floor. My children were sleeping. My wife and I went to bed just before midnight. I awoke in the morning at five-thirty as I always do.”

  “And your wife is a light sleeper?” asked Rostnikov.

  This time Fyodor did allow himself a laugh, almost choking as he said, “She sleeps a sleep that would challenge a roomful of narcoleptics. Nothing wakes her.”

  Both men had a lap of orange peels and a ready orb of fruit. They had both separated the oranges into segments and were eating slowly.

  “So I am the prime suspect?”

  “One of several,” said Porfiry Petrovich, holding up the list and letting his eyes follow the slow walk of a man on the path to the mine.

  The list was now covered with sticky fingertip tabs of orange. When he called Sarah later, he would tell her of the nearly perfect orange he had eaten in Siberia.

  “During Lebedev’s murder, I will now confess, I was with the person I thought might be the murderer of the Canadian,” Fyodor said after a long pause. “I engaged him in conversation, tried to get him drunk, and wasted a night. It was I who got drunk.”

  “His name?”

  “Your weight lifting partner Viktor Panin. I did not go to the mine. You can ask Viktor.”

  “And Viktor did not go to the mine?” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “He didn’t even stop once to piss. The man must have a bladder as big as the giant Tunguska meteor hole near Podkamennaya. I do not know if he killed the Canadian, but he definitely did not kill poor Lebedev. We are having shashlyk for dinner in your honor. Come hungry.”

  It was Porfiry Petrovich’s turn to smile.

  “I shall arrive with a suitable appetite.”

  “Igor Sturnicki, one of the two engineers on your list, was in Barnaul visiting relatives. The other engineer, Mikhail Kline, was in the hospital with a broken leg.”

  “Could he walk on the leg?”

  “It was and is in a cast from hip to ankle. It would be difficult to hobble to and into the mine to hide and commit a murder.”

  “You are sure the leg is broken?”

  “A mine truck tipped on it. He will walk with a limp when he does walk again, which may not be for a long time.”

  “That leaves the rest of the council members,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “Yes. As you see, there are three more, our Chairman Yevgeniy Zuyev. .”

  Rostnikov remembered the thin, nervous man whose right eye seemed to wander while the left was fixed firmly on whatever object it was aimed toward.

  “Magda Kaminskaya. .”

  Who, Rostnikov recalled, was short and overweight, with a definite wheezing problem.

  “And Stepan Orlov. .”

  The image of a broad-shouldered man in need of a shave came to mind.

  “Stepan, I’m afraid, is my candidate,” said Fyodor.

  “Why?”

  “By a process of elimination,” Fyodor said. “There is no one left to consider.”

  “Why have I not spoken to Stepan Orlov?”

  “Because he has locked himself in his laboratory and put up a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.”

  “He does this often?”

  “I have known him to do it.”

  “And what does he do in the laboratory?” asked Porfiry Petrovich.

  “He is a microbiologist. He is supposed to be examining all evidence of insects, rats, and odd microbial-level life in the mines.”

  “And what has he found?”

  “Among other things a species of blind white rats that have survived for hundreds of years in total darkness. He is a decent enough man when he is on the trail of some living creature, but when he has nothing under the microscope or scalpel, he is a surly creature at best.”

  “Anything else about him I should know before I knock at his laboratory door?”

  “Only that he has enormously powerful arms and hands. We had an arm-wrestling competition last year. He finished second only to Viktor, and for a few moments it looked as if he might win.”

  “So he is your choice?”

  “Yes, but Yevgeniy Zuyev is still possible.”

  “Orlov is your choice then?”

  “Have you a better one?” Fyodor asked, wondering who he might have in mind.

  Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov did, indeed, have another suspect who might be better, but could well be overlooked. Sometimes, he thought, a person who looked and talked like a murderer was actually a murderer.

  “What time do you want to go into the mine?”

  “After dinner would be fine,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “Maybe we will encounter the ghost girl,” Fyodor said, shaking his head.

  “That would be very satisfying.”

  Fyodor reached over to take the orange peel from Porfiry Petrovich, who nodded his thanks. Rostnikov’s peel was torn into eight pieces. Fyodor had managed to do it with only two curled pieces.

  This, Porfiry Petrovich thought, says something about each of us, but what it is that is being said is uncertain.

  “Shall we go see Stepan Orlov’s laboratory?”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov, starting to rise, his feet almost slipping on the crushed rocks.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gerald St. James threw darts at the target across the room. The target was backed by a corkboard that covered almost half the wall to protect the paneling from the always-sharpened steel points. An open wooden box on his desk contained several dozen finely balanced darts, all neatly lined up.

  Ellen Sten sat quietly in a firm red leather armchair near the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond which St. James could see the rooftop of DeBeers of London. She had flown in only hours before on St. James’s private Astra/Gulfstram SPX.
Ellen had not slept in more than fifty hours but, thanks to an intentionally slight overdose of Provigil, she was now awake and attentive.

  St. James calmly balanced a dart over his shoulder and, with a snap of the wrist, sent it noiselessly across the room and into the target. The target was his own design.

  He was not interested in keeping score or hitting anything but the coin-sized black dot within a red circle the size of a baby’s face. One should not get points for coming close. One did not get points in life for coming close. Gerald St. James’s accuracy was uncanny.

  Once, many years ago in Estonia, he had sat in a very damp cellar, wheezing and hiding from people who called themselves police. He had nothing to do but eat what was smuggled down to him by an old woman to whom he eventually had paid everything he owned.

  In that cellar he had his knife. He kept it sharp against the jutting edges of the stone wall. For forty-one days he had thrown his knife, the knife with which he had killed the opium dealer who had tried to kill him.

  That was long before he became Gerald St. James.

  He had used the knife to kill the old woman. He took back the money he had given her and the bit more he found hidden in an empty grain jar in her kitchen.

  Neither the boy he had been nor the man he had become ever showed anger or emotion of any kind, not that he did not feel them.

  “So?” he asked, picking up another dart.

  When he had exhausted his supply in the box, he would get up and retrieve the darts. He considered this the exercise his physician had prescribed for him.

  “The Moscow policeman Rostnikov,” Ellen Sten said, “will discover our man in Devochka. He is capable. Our man has been careless.”

  “He will not talk,” said St. James, hurling a fresh dart.

  “You wish to take that chance?”

  The chance was that their man would reveal how the diamonds were smuggled out of Devochka and turned over to the Botswanans in Moscow. There was no doubt now that the man who had contacted him, the Russian policeman named Yaklovev, knew about the operation, but he had no proof, no culprits to arrest and parade in court or use as chips to deal himself into a fortune. But the man had not indicated that he was interested in money. He wanted power. Others would not have believed the Russian, but St. James did. He understood. The Russian was a kindred seeker of power and approval. St. James did not intend to give him either.