Black Knight in Red Square ir-2

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  He almost managed to lose himself in the vision of the werewolf leaping down, the camera on a massive boom rising over him. His right hand began to rise inadvertently to simulate the smooth animal movement and, as it did so, he felt something against his side.

  It was a familiar feeling, and Bintz almost shouted in German that his pocket had been picked, but he had nothing in the side pocket of his pants. His hand slapped down and now felt something small, about twice the size of a pfennig and much heavier.

  Bintz looked at the figures passing by in both directions, but no one was looking at him. He had no idea which of them had dropped the object into his pocket. He turned back to the monastery without seeing it and let his hand slide into the pocket to touch the solid metal object. He knew what it was, and he knew that a step had now been taken that would make it difficult for him to back out of this.

  He cursed his own stupidity. He cursed the woman who had arranged this. He cursed World Liberation and almost cursed his mother for bringing him into a world where such a thing could happen. Then, growling at a young man who bumped into him, Bintz began the walk back to his hotel in as direct a line as possible.

  Not far down the street at number 18, a man in a dark short-sleeved shirt seemed to be taking a picture of the museum that had once been the birthplace of the Romanovs. Actually, he was considering whether to report the odd behavior of the German to Chief Inspector Rostnikov. The policeman was under the impression that all Germans were a bit odd. This fat man had waddled for almost a mile past dozens of historic buildings, stopped and stared at the old monastery, and then suddenly acted as if he had been shot in the thigh.

  Germans, the policeman thought, were not to be trusted. He decided to report the man’s behavior to Rostnikov immediately as he had been ordered to, even if he could make no sense of it.

  In the crowd, far ahead of the detective and Bintz, the dark-eyed woman hurried toward her next appointment. It was all very dangerous, but she had no choice. She felt exhilarated.

  Within fifteen minutes she was inside a department store on the New Arbat standing beside two women who were examining dolls. The dolls had blond curly hair and had been made in Hungary, imitations of their American counterparts.

  “So much money,” complained the younger of the two women, biting her lower lip.

  “What else is there to do with the money?” her companion said. “It’s her birthday.”

  The dark-eyed one glanced across the store and picked up one of the dolls. She saw the person she was seeking, and doubt struck her. He was quite conspicuous, clearly foreign. He craned his neck and looked around the store. If he was being followed, his tail would certainly recognize this as an assignation. She wondered if she could count on him and decided she could not. He did not even pretend to look at the goods on the wooden tables but scanned the crowd anxiously.

  The dark-eyed woman trailed along with the two women customers, turning her head as if taking part in their conversation. They could have been three young mothers on a shopping trip, as they moved past the tall foreigner, who looked down to check his watch. At that moment, the dark-eyed one reached over and dropped the object from her palm into his pocket. Taking a step forward, she touched the sleeve of one of the two young women and said, her voice polite, “Do you know if there is a sale on fabrics today?”

  A passerby would have thought, looking in their direction, that the three women knew each other. This, in fact, was just what James Willery thought. He had felt nothing enter his pocket and did not know the object was there.

  “I know of no sale,” said one of the two women.

  “Nor I,” said the other.

  The dark-eyed woman with the glasses thanked them, kept up the conversation briefly as they walked along, and then veered off in another direction toward a door. Only when she reached the door did she glance back at the tall Englishman who continued to look nervously around. Either he was a fine actor or he had no idea that the detonator was now in his pocket. He would find it, she was sure, when he reached for some change. That concerned her less than the bored-looking man four counters away who was pretending to examine a plastic suitcase. The man’s hands were on the suitcase, but his eyes were on the Englishman.

  It didn’t matter. She had done what she could. It really didn’t matter at all if the Englishman was caught, but she hoped he would complete his assignment before that happened. Chance, while kept to a minimum, could work either for or against her. Her only hope was to control events as much as she could, have as many options for action as possible, and hope that the odds were in her favor. She had learned that the odds were usually in favor of the person who initiated action. It was far safer to act than to react.

  She walked slowly from the store into the late afternoon crowds and turned in the direction of the apartment. One more night, she thought. Just one more.

  Rostnikov had washed, shared a drink with Sarah from the bottle of Mukuzani No. 4 wine they had been saving, and now sat at the table looking at his trophy. Plenty of late afternoon sun came through the windows, so they had not turned on any lights.

  “Shall we call Iosef?” he asked.

  “We can try,” Sarah said, looking up from the book she was trying to read. “He would like to know about the trophy.”

  The look they exchanged made it clear that there was more they would like to tell their son, but that, for the present at least, it would have to remain unsaid.

  “I probably can’t get a call through to Kiev,” he said.

  “If you don’t try, you’ll never know.”

  There was no arguing with that logic. Rostnikov had already put together the packet he had been working on, had already wrapped it into a small bundle and taped it. It would be bulky in his pants pocket but it would fit. He had considered hiding it, but there was no point in that. There was no safe place. He would simply carry it in his pocket.

  “I’ll try to place a call,” he said, starting to get up.

  Before he could take a step, there was a knock at the door. Rostnikov and his wife looked at each other. Her eyes peered over the tops of her round glasses. The knock was urgent and authoritative. Rostnikov himself often knocked just that way.

  He gestured to her and held up a hand before crossing the room and reaching for the door. He resisted the urge to touch the packet in his pocket. If he did so now, he might do it without thinking later. He opened the door and found himself facing Samsanov, the building manager, a thin, sad-faced creature.

  “I must talk to you, Comrade Rostnikov,” he said seriously.

  “Talk,” growled Rostnikov.

  “Can I come in?” said Samsanov, nodding toward the interior of the apartment.

  Rostnikov backed up to let the thin man enter and closed the door behind him. Samsanov nodded at Sarah, looked around the room and back at Rostnikov. The building manager wore a dark, worn suit and white shirt with no tie. His neck was speckled with gray hairs and made him look rather like a sorry chicken.

  “You fixed the toilet and disturbed the Bulgarians,” Samsanov said, his eyes narrowing.

  Rostnikov could see that the man had been drinking, perhaps building himself up for this moment.

  “I did,” said Rostnikov, “and let me remind you that I am a chief inspector of the MVD and that I have given you certain tokens of good faith for you to do something about the toilet and that you failed to do so.”

  Samsanov raised a placating hand as Rostnikov had hoped he would. The ploy was to start an offensive before he could be attacked.

  “I have not come to complain,” Samsanov said. “I’ve come to see if we can reach an understanding.”

  “Understanding?” asked Rostnikov, moving toward the building manager and looking over at Sarah.

  “You seem to be good at repairing the plumbing. You know something about it,” said Samsanov softly. “People who need such repairs are willing to pay to bypass the normal procedure. I thought that you and I might-”

  “
That we might make a profit by illegally doing plumbing repairs,” Rostnikov said.

  Samsanov looked at the door and back at Sarah.

  “I’m not talking about illegal profits,” he said soothingly. “I’m talking about helping people.”

  Samsanov clearly had no idea that the apartment was bugged, had not been part of it. The KGB could have used him but had chosen not to. Rostnikov’s near certainty about the apartment being bugged had been confirmed the night before when he found one of the devices and marveled at how incredibly small they had become.

  The KGB was almost certainly uninterested in the petty profiteering of a building manager, but Rostnikov was amused at the possibility of telling Samsanov that he was proposing a punishable offense and that his proposal was being recorded by the KGB.

  “Out,” said Rostnikov. “I have a good mind to arrest you.”

  In truth, Rostnikov was not at all offended by Samsanov’s proposal. He was rather flattered, but he enjoyed acting out the scene for Sarah, who smiled, and for whoever was listening.

  “I didn’t mean-” Samsanov said, moving toward the door.

  “You meant,” said Rostnikov, opening the door. “Out.”

  “Remember,” Samsanov said, trying to regain control as Rostnikov gripped his arm and urged him into the hall. “You violated the order of the committee.”

  “I will be most happy to address the committee on the subject,” said Rostnikov, making no effort to keep his voice down. “In fact I would welcome it. Please let me know when it will be.” He shut the door firmly on Samsanov.

  Karpo was up by five on Sunday morning. The streets were almost empty, and the sky was still dark. It was his favorite time of the day, and he enjoyed the long walk to Petrovka Street.

  Even at the noisiest of times, Moscow was comparatively quiet; the noise level was comparable to that of Saumur, France, or Waterloo, Iowa, rather than that of New York, Rome, Tokyo, or London. Part of this was due to the smaller number of automobiles, but part was due to the relative quiet of Muscovites. From time to time foreigners have attributed this quiet atmosphere to the fear of the people in a totalitarian state, but they have only to read accounts of Moscow streets before the current century to know that this is not true. No, while Muscovites can be given to hearty laughter and heated argument and even madness, they are essentially a private people. They drive their emotions inward where they build, rather than outward where they dissipate. And Russians are fatalistic. If a person is run over by a car, it is terrible, horrible, but no more than one can expect.

  This tendency to keep things inside is perhaps to a large degree also responsible for the heavy consumption of alcohol in Moscow. The emotions have to be diluted, tempered, and released, or they might explode. Karpo had seen such explosions many times. He accepted it as the human condition. Every once in a while a human being, an imperfect mechanism at best, would malfunction, and clog up the machinery of the state. Such flaws had to be repaired or removed. They simply couldn’t be tolerated. Karpo saw himself as an expert in the maintenance of the commonweal.

  As he walked, Karpo’s left arm began to throb slightly from the movement. He had several options. He could take one of the pills, which might affect his alertness and would do only a little to ease the pain. He could seek public transportation, a rather difficult thing to find so early on a Sunday morning. Moscow was the center of a godless state, but the concept of the Sabbath was so much a part of the Russian psyche that the government had eased its rules on Sunday and had gradually allowed it to become a day of rest. Karpo could have called Petrovka and had them send a car for him. After all, he was on official business, but to ask for a car would be an indication of weakness, and that would never do. He chose instead to accept the pain and walk on. He would think through the pain.

  By six he was at his desk. The long, narrow room was not yet full, but Kleseko and Zelach were at their desks, and in the corner fat Nostavo was eating a piece of dark bread and talking to a uniformed officer, who stood nearby acknowledging the sage advice he was getting. Eating at one’s desk was forbidden, but many inspectors did so. The practice offended Karpo, who regarded any infraction of the rules as a threat to the entire structure. Lenin had said the same thing most clearly, and had led a most ascetic life. If one is willing to break a small rule, how will he know whether the next rule is also a small one when he breaks it? Soon the line between small and large is a blur and the individual becomes a detriment to the state. But Karpo did not report such offenses. There were too many of them. There were too many bribes, too many inspectors who took advantage of their privilege.

  Zelach looked over at him, and Karpo nodded in recognition. Then Zelach looked away. Karpo picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Kostnitsov, laboratory,” came the voice after a long wait.

  “Karpo.”

  “So, I’m here,” said Kostnitsov. “The sun is coming out over the Kremlin Wall, my wife is turning over for another few hours’ sleep, and my daughter is who the hell knows where.”

  “Do you have the report ready?” said Karpo.

  “Would I be in my laboratory now if I had no report? Would I have gotten myself up in darkness, cut an acre of my chin shaving in a daze, traveled without food to say I had nothing?”

  “I do not know you well enough to answer such questions,” said Karpo.

  “I’m talking human nature, not Boris Kostnitsov. Sometimes, Inspector Karpo, I despair of you. Come on up to my office. That is the least you can do. No, wait, the least you could do in addition to coming to my office is to bring me some tea.”

  With that, Kostnitsov hung up. The assistant director of the MVD laboratory had no fear or awe of Karpo, no respect for his reputation. Others shied away from the Vampire and limited their contacts with him, but Kostnitsov had always treated him as he treated others, with no respect at all.

  In a rather strange and inexplicable way, Karpo liked the man. So, as he would for no other-with the possible exception of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who would never ask-Karpo made his way to the darkened cafeteria, boiled some water, and made a cup of tea. Then he took the elevator to the lower level, which housed the laboratory.

  There was no name on the door, only a number. Knocking was awkward. Karpo shifted the hot cup to his left hand, which he could only raise to his waist. He knocked with his right.

  “Come in,” shouted Kostnitsov. “Come in, Karpo. Why are you knocking? I told you to come down. What do you think I’m doing in here? Performing lewd acts with laboratory specimens?”

  Karpo opened the door, walked across the hard tile floor, and placed the cup on the walnut desk in front of Kostnitsov. Kostnitsov was somewhere in his fifties, medium height, a little belly, straight white hair, and a red face more the result of his Georgian heritage than of his intake of alcohol, which was moderate. He wore a blue lab jacket and was holding a gray envelope.

  “Sit,” he told Karpo and reached for the tea, which he drank in a single gulp. “Not enough sugar. How am I to get through this morning without dextrose?”

  “I don’t know,” said Karpo, taking a seat across from the desk.

  Kostnitsov sucked in his cheeks and examined Karpo.

  “Has anyone ever told you you are a most humorless man?” he asked.

  “Four times,” Karpo replied. “You have a report ready for me.”

  “And an image to protect,” Kostnitsov said with a glower. “You’ll have to tolerate my eccentricity. It is all I have to keep me going in this mausoleum. You know what I really wanted to be in this life?”

  “No.”

  “A soccer coach. Here is your report. Do you want me to summarize it for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Death was definitely caused by an irradiated liquid dosage of psittacosis bacilli,” said Kostnitsov, looking at the report. “An unnecessarily flamboyant method for murder. The means available to someone to commit murder by poison without resorting to exotic potions smuggled into the coun
try is almost infinite. Your murderer is a showoff. He is-”

  “She,” corrected Karpo.

  “She was signing her crime with a flourish,” said Kostnitsov.

  “Where could she get this psittacosis material?” Karpo asked, commanding his arm not to throb.

  Kostnitsov’s grin was broad and manic, revealing rather poorly-cared-for teeth.

  “Only one place as far as I can tell,” he said, tapping the report before him. “The Suttcliffe Pharmaceutical Company in a place called Trenton, New Jersey. How she stole it or why is beyond my knowledge, but, as far as I know, Suttcliffe is where Dr. Y. T. Yui is working. He is the foremost authority on the disease which, incidentally, normally affects parakeets, parrots, and other jungle birds. It can be passed on to man, but this happens rarely. Of course you must understand that the strain which killed your Mr. Aubrey and the other three gentlemen was carefully nurtured for this destructive purpose. Suttcliffe is well known for its private work on biological warfare.”

  “I see,” said Karpo when Kostnitsov paused to scan the report for other pertinent information.

  “Has this charming woman used the poison since the murders at the Metropole?”

  “I think not,” said Karpo. No, he doubted she would use it again. He understood her more with each bit of information. She considered herself a professional, perhaps even an artist in terrorism. Once she had used a method, she would not repeat it-at least not without introducing some striking variation.

  “Karpo,” Kostnitsov said, handing the report to him, “that concoction appears to be amazingly virulent. I would guess that even if an expert in virology had been at his side the moment your victim took it, he could have done nothing to save him.”

  “And if she is still carrying this or has given it to someone else to use-” Karpo began.

  “Anyone ingesting it,” said Kostnitsov, examining the plastic cup for remnants of tea, “will be absolutely safe. I bred a culture of the bacilli taken from the stomach of the Japanese. Its life is incredibly short, four days at most. You or I could drink a cup full of her leftover psittacosis bacilli and suffer nothing worse than a bad taste in the mouth. Unless there are other side effects, though none would be-”