“In many ways,” Rostnikov agreed.
“Yet,” said Drozhkin, “it could have been worse, much worse. Your man Karpo still lives.”
“He is still alive,” Rostnikov confirmed.
“You will, I am sure, accept responsibility for what has taken place.”
“I will take responsibility for that which was within my scope of authority,” Rostnikov said.
The silence went on for about five seconds during which Rostnikov looked at his wife and nodded.
“The German,” Drozhkin said finally.
“The German,” Rostnikov echoed.
“You will have to explain,” Drozhkin’s voice was somber.
“I plan to do so, Comrade Colonel. If I may, I would like to discuss it with you this morning.”
“Come to my office,” said the colonel. “As soon as you can get here.”
“No. I will meet you in the little parkway in front of the Polytechnical Museum,” Rostnikov said, “right near the entrance to the Dzerzhinski metro station.”
“Comrade,” Drozhkin said ominously.
“I’ll explain, Colonel.”
“We shall see,” said Drozhkin. “Twenty minutes.”
Rostnikov hung up.
“He will come,” Rostnikov said softly.
When Rostnikov limped up the stairway of the metro twenty minutes later, Colonel Drozhkin was standing at the corner squinting into the morning sun and looking at Lubyanka across the Dzerzhinski Square. The man, Rostnikov could see, looked older, smaller, more gnarled, and tougher outside his own environment. The colonel was wearing a slightly rumpled dark brown suit. He looked at his watch to indicate that Rostnikov was wasting his valuable time.
“I hope there is a point to this secrecy, Rostnikov,” he said in greeting.
“There is a point, Comrade,” Rostnikov answered, assuring himself that no one was close enough to overhear him. “Shall we walk?”
“No,” said Drozhkin irritably, “we shall not walk. We shall stand here and talk briefly. What is it that you could not say in my office?”
“Your office is wired, is it not?” said Rostnikov.
“Does that require an answer?”
“No,” Rostnikov replied, “but I thought you might prefer that what we will say be kept between us.”
Drozhkin’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips.
“Weigh carefully whatever it is you are about to say, policeman,” he said softly.
“I shall,” Rostnikov responded with a smile. They stepped out of the flow of traffic and walked toward the grass.
“And be brief,” warned Drozhkin.
“As you wish,” agreed Rostnikov. “In the past six months, I have been involved in two investigations that have brought me in contact with the KGB and with you. In both cases, I have come across information that might be a source of some embarrassment to the parties involved.”
Drozhkin stopped walking and glared at Rostnikov.
“Are you going-”
“I am in a dangerous position,” continued Rostnikov looking past the colonel. “I know more than I should about the supposed murder of a dissident by a madman who was manipulated by the KGB.”
“You are a fool, Rostnikov,” Drozhkin whispered.
Rostnikov shrugged. “Perhaps, but it was something we both knew,” he said, “just as we both know that the two explosions and a number of very public deaths in the past three days have been as much the responsibility of your apparatus as they have been of me and my men. In short, you have been hiding behind me, Colonel, because you wanted a scapegoat in case that woman and World Liberation were not stopped.”
Drozhkin’s face was quite red, but Rostnikov did not look at him.
“What have you done?” said the colonel, grabbing Rostnikov’s jacket. It occurred to Rostnikov that he could lift this man up and throw him into Kirov Street with very little effort.
“Just what you fear,” he said. “I made copies of all the papers and interviews and investigation reports on both cases and copies of the tapes of all conversations I have had with you in the last week. Those documents have gone out of the country and now rest safely in West Germany.”
“You are a traitor,” hissed Drozhkin.
“No,” said Rostnikov rubbing his neck. “That material would be an embarrassment to our country. It would not constitute proof of anything. What it would do, Colonel, is raise a series of very small questions, a few news stories that would result in waves that would wash you out of power. You have survived a great deal, Colonel, but I don’t think you would survive this.”
Rostnikov looked down at the colonel and imagined the thoughts that were racing through his mind.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “Bintz has already put the material where even he cannot get it. In the event of his death, it will be released. If I do not contact him periodically, he will order its release. Even if he is tortured, he cannot retrieve the material. We worked it out. I’m afraid, Colonel, if anything happens to me or to Bintz, you will be in quite a bit of trouble.”
“All this to ensure your safety, Rostnikov,” Drozhkin said.
“No, Colonel, I want more than my safety. I realized when this investigation began that I was a dangerous man in your eyes, that you would have me watched, and that my future was precarious at best. I also know that, given enough time, you will find a way to get around my plan.”
“So…?” prodded Drozhkin.
“I wish to emigrate,” said Rostnikov, looking around the square. “My wife, my son, and I want to go to America.”
“That is impossible,” said Drozhkin. “I can’t-”
“You can. I’m sure you can,” Rostnikov insisted. “This is not a decision I wished to make, but I can see no other way for me or for you.”
“And if I choose to sacrifice myself instead?” Drozhkin said. They had walked down Serov Passage circling the Polytechnical Museum and, to a passerby, they would have looked like two old friends on a morning stroll.
“It would be a waste,” said Rostnikov, “and would accomplish nothing but the end of your career and probably my life.”
“It might be worth it,” said the smaller man.
“I have gambled that you will not find it so,” said Rostnikov.
“What will prevent you from releasing this material after you leave the Soviet Union?” asked Drozhkin.
Rostnikov carefully hid his relief. The colonel’s question told him that he might well have won the battle. “What would my reason be?” Rostnikov said. “To punish you? To embarrass my country?”
“No,” said Drozhkin. “Your word is not enough. I risk a great deal if I agree to this scheme, perhaps even…No, your word is not enough.”
“There’s nothing else I can give you,” Rostnikov said, stopping to touch the colonel’s arm. Drozhkin moved away from the familiarity.
“Your son,” Drozhkin said, and Rostnikov could see that a smile was forming in the corners of his wrinkled mouth.
“My-”
“Your son will remain in the Soviet Union where I can watch him,” the colonel explained.
“A stalemate,” sighed Rostnikov, biting his lower lip.
“A stale-” Drozhkin began and looked at the chief inspector. “You knew I would propose this, didn’t you? You expected this?”
Rostnikov did not reply.
“We should have recruited you into the KGB long ago,” he said.
“I appreciate the compliment,” said Rostnikov. “Do I take it that you agree to my proposal?”
“You are not concerned for your son?”
“I’m concerned,” said Rostnikov, “but he has committed no crime, and he is unaware of all this. He is an innocent Soviet citizen in your care, and I’m sure you will take care of him. Once my wife and I leave, his safety will be your responsibility.”
Rostnikov had not anticipated Drozhkin’s reaction. The small man stopped and began laughing. He laughed, a hacking little laugh, until he choked an
d Rostnikov feared that he might actually die on the street and ruin the well-laid plan.
“You are threatening me?” Drozhkin finally spat out. “You’re going to come back from some capitalistic country in the dead of night as a tourist and beat me to death or release your tapes and papers?”
A young woman passing by wearing a white T-shirt with “Dallas Cowboys” stenciled on it gave the colonel a curious look and walked on.
“It can be done,” said Rostnikov.
“There is nothing more to say,” Drozhkin said. “Go back to your job, your home, and worry.”
“It is imperative that I have a decision on this within a month,” said Rostnikov.
“Or what?” asked the colonel, stepping away from him. “Do you know what will happen to you and your wife if the material is released?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, “the same thing that will happen if it is not released and I remain here. This conversation commits me, Colonel. You know it, and I know it. We are too old to play such games, and we have other work to do.”
“I will not be denied the last word, Chief Inspector,” said the colonel. “I’ll do what I can to stop you.”
With that, the colonel turned and walked quickly back toward Dzerzhinski Square.
In the Moscow office of Pravda, Viktor Shisko sat waiting for the call from Comrade Ivanov. He was in no hurry. He had endured similar waits during the past thirty years, and things could have been much worse.
Somewhere a committee of Party members was meeting to determine what to tell Ivanov to pass on to Shisko. Viktor drank a cup of coffee, knowing it was not good for his weak bowels, and checked his watch. His lunch would be late today.
People moved around him from desk to desk, talking, working, writing, but the level of sound was low, quite unlike the bustle of the newsroom in the American movies he had seen. Viktor had never visited an American newsroom, but he had seen All the President’s Men and, long ago, The Front Page, and he wondered what it would be like to go out and actually investigate a story and then return to a madhouse of an office and write it.
When the call came at a little before one, Shisko took it, wrote down the information on lined paper, asked two questions, and promised to call Comrade Ivanov back in less than an hour with the story for his approval.
Viktor was surprised at the information Ivanov had given him. Rarely had such a story made the news, though he well knew such things happened. By two o’clock he had finished the story and called Comrade Ivanov, who checked it with someone else and called Viktor back at three-thirty. At that point it was decided that the story could run:
MOSCOW, July 23 (Pravda)-English filmmaker James Willery, 36, was killed in Moscow when a gas main exploded destroying a wall in the Zaryadye Cinema today. The gas main defect also caused a small eruption almost immediately after the explosion in Red Square though little damage was done.
Screenings scheduled for the Zaryadye Cinema for the Moscow Film Festival now under way will be held in the Metropole Cinema until repairs can be made, which should take no more than two or three days.
The gas mains that caused the damage were part of a system that remains from before the Revolution. The few hundred feet of piping that failed will be replaced immediately to ensure that such an accident will not occur again, according to the Moscow Energy Board.
Willery, whose film
To the Left
was shown at this year’s festival, was a prominent socialist filmmaker who had been invited to the festival because of his innovative approaches to socialist film.
No one else was injured in the accidents.
Lieutenant Galinarov sat at his small desk absorbed in the duty roster in front of him. His head was cradled in his hands as if he were deep in thought. Iosef Rostnikov concluded that he was trying to give the impression that he was deep in thought over who would be responsible for barracks duty today or whose turn it was to pick up fresh sheets on Tuesday.
Iosef stood patiently before the desk and waited while Galinarov played out his scene. For three or four minutes Galinarov examined the sheet, grunting occasionally, feigning concentration, or reaching for a drink from the glass nearby, which he kept filled from a bottle of Pepsi Cola, but which, Iosef was sure, did not contain Pepsi.
“Yes,” he said finally, taking a drink and looking up, “it can be done.”
Iosef said nothing.
Galinarov’s next move was to examine Rostnikov from head to boots.
“You have finished cleaning your weapons?”
“I have, Comrade,” Iosef said.
“And do you have any outstanding obligations for the next four or five days?” Galinarov asked.
“My only obligation is to remain alert at all times and be ready to be transported to wherever my unit might be needed in five minutes’ notice,” Iosef said. It was the required response, but he could not discern why Galinarov was putting him through this secular catechism.
“That is good, Corporal,” Galinarov said. “And do you remember what you are to say when questioned by civilians or if the subject of your tour in Afghanistan is brought forth?”
“That all discussion of that subject is military and confidential and that I can say nothing of it,” answered Iosef.
Galinarov nodded and then looked back down at the duty roster. “I suppose it can be arranged,” he sighed. “Rostnikov, you are to receive four days’ leave to visit your parents in Moscow.”
“For that I thank you, Comrade Lieutenant,” Iosef said, knowing that Galinarov surely had nothing to do with the granting of such leave and certainly, if given the opportunity, would have fought it. The business of examining the duty roster to see if he could let Iosef go was a childish attempt at reminding Iosef of his authority.
Galinarov reached under the duty roster, removed a folded sheet containing orders for leave, and tapped the sheet against his palm as if still considering whether to grant this favor.
“I’m not sure you deserve this, Rostnikov,” Galinarov said. Iosef looked into the man’s eyes and could now see that he had been drinking heavily. It was a bit early on a Monday evening to look as far into alcohol as the lieutenant did, and Iosef concluded that the order to give his hated underling leave had been most painful.
“I think you are right, Comrade,” Iosef said somberly. “I don’t deserve this. Since you do not want me to have it, I will, regretfully, go back to my duties.” His face a blank, Iosef turned and took a step toward the door.
“Rostnikov,” the lieutenant’s voice shot past him.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Iosef said, turning around with as innocent a look as he could present.
“I hate you. You know that, do you not?”
Their eyes met and locked.
“Yes, Comrade,” said Iosef, holding out his hand for the folded sheet of paper. Galinarov threw it at him. Iosef caught it neatly and thrust it in his pocket. “Will there be anything else?”
“When you return from your leave, there will be a great deal else, Corporal, a great deal else.” Galinarov drank from his glass without removing his eyes from Iosef. “You are dismissed.”
Iosef turned his back, took three smart strides to the door, opened it, then looked back and said, “Thank you again, Comrade, and I hope you have a good week. May I bring you something from Moscow, a bottle of brandy?”
“You speak when you should be silent and are silent when you should speak,” Galinarov hissed. “I will teach you when to do which.”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant,” said Iosef, and he went out into the corridor.
He marched slowly out of the building and across the open field, looking neither right nor left. Galinarov was probably standing at the window of his small office watching. Not until he had entered the barracks and closed the door behind him did he reach into his pocket and remove the leave orders. They were effective immediately. He hurried to his locker, waving the paper at Misha Svedragailov, who lounged in his bunk reading a newspaper.
“No!” shouted Iosef. “I’ve got a leave, four days, starting now. If I hurry, I can catch the afternoon train to Moscow.”
“Moscow’s not such a safe place to visit,” answered Misha with envy obvious in his voice. “I was just reading that they had some gas main explosions, one right in Red Square.”
“I’ll risk it,” said Iosef, removing his small travel bag and filling it with underwear and shaving gear.
“You’ll call my father?” asked Misha, going back to his paper.
“I’ll call your father,” agreed Iosef, slamming the locker and turning to leave. “Good-bye.”
The bus to Kiev was ten minutes late, which meant that he had only fourteen minutes to get his ticket and catch the train, but make it he did by running and moving to the front of lines, a privilege of the military.
It wasn’t until he was on the train pulling out of the station that Iosef allowed himself to think. He felt wonder and anxiety about seeing his parents for the first time in a year, a great eagerness to see the familiar buildings of Moscow, and a curiosity about who had tugged at the strings to get him this leave and for what reason.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-fae9bb-c3c9-a84d-f39f-69f8-fd17-3b9b4b
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 03.09.2008
Created using: calibre 0.9.36, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Stuart M. Kaminsky
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