Death of a Dissident ir-1

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  The Procurator General himself had called her no more than half an hour earlier. She had listened, asking questions only when it was expected. The conversation lasted no more than five minutes, after which she called the Petrovka motor pool and ordered a police car to go to the apartment of Inspector Rostnikov and bring him in immediately. She had watched the yellow Volga with the blue horizontal stripe pull silently into the wide street from her window as she wondered why the murder of Aleksander Granovsky was being turned over to the police and not the K.G.B.

  Rostnikov had been sleeping in his apartment on Krasikov Street not more than two blocks from that of the Granovskys when the knock had come at his door. He had been dreaming of bench pressing four hundred pounds and had been grunting under the effort. His pained groans had awakened his wife, who was sure he was dreaming of some terrible sight witnessed during some investigation in his past.

  “Porfiry,” his wife said, shaking him gently. “Porfiry, there is a policeman at the door for you.”

  Rostnikov woke slowly to the voice telling him the police had come for him. That, he felt sure, was nonsense. He was a policeman, and it was he who knocked at doors in the night. Gradually, the four hundred pounds floated away and he forced himself awake.

  “Time?” he said, sitting up at the side of the bed.

  “After two,” Sarah answered.

  He was about to ask if Iosif were up and then remembered that his son, their son, rashly named for Stalin in a moment of youthful patriotism, was in the army now and stationed somewhere near Kiev. Rostnikov pulled himself from the bed, touched his wife’s cheek reassuringly and limped across the room. He was a powerful, compact man of fifty-two, who lifted weights to compensate his body for the injury to his leg. In 1941 he had caught a piece of metal in that leg during the battle of Rostov. It was so long ago that he didn’t even remember what it was like to walk without dragging the leg behind him.

  The young policeman was standing in the doorway, afraid to step into an inspector’s home and track snow. He held his fur cap in his hand.

  “You are to come with me to Procurator Timofeyeva’s office immediately,” the boy said almost apologetically.

  Rostnikov rubbed his hand across his stubble and held the other up to indicate to the young man that he would be with him in a few minutes. The young policeman looked relieved.

  After nearly thirty years as an inspector of police, Rostnikov knew better than to ask the young officer what it was about. The boy would have been told nothing. In five minutes, Rostnikov was out of his apartment, which was no larger than that of the dead Granovsky, and on his way to Petrovka. He tried to get back to his wonderful dream as he rocked in the back seat of the Volga, but the dream was gone. Rostnikov sighed, accepted its loss, and opened his eyes.

  When he arrived at Procurator Timofeyeva’s office, Rostnikov entered slowly after knocking and sat in the soft black chair across from the Procurator. She in turn sat behind her desk in a straight wooden chair. Rostnikov wasn’t sure if she gave her guests the more comfortable chair to make them feel guilty about having greater immediate comfort or because she really preferred discomfort. He had come to the tentative conclusion that it was discomfort for herself she sought. Above her head, on the wall, was a picture of Lenin as a young man, emerging from his cell-like room with a wan smile. Rostnikov had long ago concluded that the picture was not just a political necessity but a source of inspiration to Comrade Timofeyeva. He sometimes imagined her as a happy convert to the religion of Communism. He had, however, learned to have great respect for her zeal and ability.

  Timofeyeva looked across her desk at the investigator known widely as “the washtub.” She offered him a cup of cold tea, and he accepted it, reaching out a rather hairy hand to take it in.

  “What do you know of Aleksander Granovsky?” she asked, trying to ignore the pile of work on her desk and concentrate on this new problem. She did not think in terms of complaint. She was a loyal party member. If a task was given to her, it was necessary, and she would simply have to find the time for it. Her doctor had warned her about her work load and her heart, but she had decided to put aside the occasional pains she felt, which he had told her were warnings to slow down and relax.

  “I’ve read the papers, heard the news,” shrugged Rostnikov, still wearing his coat pulled snugly around Him. Comrade Procurator’s office was always cold.

  “Granovsky is dead,” she said. “Murdered. At about eleven, someone went to his apartment and plunged a rusty sickle into his chest. Apparently, it was a madman who also threw a law book through the window before he fled.”

  “His trial was to have been the day after tomorrow?” Rostnikov asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask why he was not in prison?”

  “He welcomed the trial,” Timofeyeva said, drinking some sugarless cold tea. “It was decided to be a good gesture.”

  “The K.G.B.?” Rostnikov tried.

  “They were watching him,” she said slowly, “but they did not see who killed him.”

  “And the K.G.B. doesn’t want to handle the investigation?” Rostnikov went on, knowing he was treading dangerously.

  “What do you wish to discover, Tovarisheh?” she said with a cold look, which did nothing to intimidate Rostnikov, who was suddenly very hungry.

  He sighed and plunged in:

  “It seems coincidental to me that he should be allowed out of prison before his trial, that he should be killed so close to that trial and that the K.G.B. should not want to handle the investigation.”

  “You think the K.G.B. might have killed him?” she said.

  “No,” said Rostnikov. His stomach growled loudly. “If the K.G.B. wanted to get rid of him, they would be more careful, considering who he was, but a single agent provoked by a man like Granovsky might…”

  “I see your point,” said the Procurator, folding her hands in front of her. “You will and do have permission to delicately make inquiries in that direction, but very delicately, you understand?”

  “Very delicately,” he agreed. “A sickle, you say?”

  “Yes, a sickle.”

  “Symbol of the revolution,” he said softly.

  “There is no accounting for the variances of the Muscovite mind,” she said without humor. “I have seen too much to try. Take it where you will, but remember the problems. You have the direct order of the Procurator General himself on this investigation. The world will know of this murder in a few hours. There are many in other countries and in our own who will be convinced that some force in the government is responsible.”

  “And,” said Rostnikov placidly, “if they turn out to be correct?”

  “Then,” she said, turning to her picture of Lenin for inspiration, “we will discuss it again. But assuming it is not, when we catch the murderer, we must have unshakable evidence of his guilt which the Procurator General can release and use to remove any conspiracy accusations. You understand?”

  “Fully,” said Rostnikov, pushing himself up from the soft chair with effort. “I can expect the K.G.B. people to be hostile to my investigation. I can expect the friends of this Granovsky to be hostile because they distrust us and fear for their own safety. I can expect neutral witnesses to hide and pretend they know nothing. In short, a typical murder.”

  “Yes,” she said, turning back to face him. “Except we do not have a great deal of time. The faster we know what happened, the sooner we can prevent any international incident over this. If we get nowhere in two or three days, we can expect the case to be taken out of our hands.”

  “Which will not look good on our record,” said Rostnikov without concern. Timofeyeva and Rostnikov exchanged very slight smiles. He had no hope of becoming a procurator and no desire to become one. He was too old, had a Jewish wife, and was quite content to be an investigator. If anything would prod him into extra effort, it would be pride.

  “I have no doubt that you will do your best,” she said.

  �
��I will do better if you allow me to take Karpo and Tkach off the cases they are working on and assign them to this,” he said, standing at the door.

  The Procurator looked at the pile of reports on her desk. Five of them belonged to the two junior investigators in question.

  “Take them,” she said.

  “Thank you,” replied Rostnikov respectfully and left the cold office to search for something to drink before he called the two men who would be helping him find what appeared to be a very mad or very clever murderer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At three o’clock in the morning, New York City is vibrating with neon, pulsating with bodies in doorways, and even the most remote streets of Queens are not surprised by a scream or laughter. At three in the morning, Paris streets are alive with casual strollers, policemen, and drunks. But at three in the morning, Moscow is a city of echoes and shadows, its streets deserted and silent. In Moscow the liquor stores close early, the restaurants at midnight, and the metros at one. A few taxis prowl the streets with three or four bottles of vodka under the front seat to sell at double the store price to thirsty insomniacs. Moscow begins work at five in the morning. The few hours before are for the criminals, the police, taxi drivers, government officials at parties, and party officials working on government.

  At three o’clock this morning Viktor Shishko sat at his German-made typewriter in the office of Moscow Pravda carefully wording a story on the death of Aleksander Granovsky. The only information he had was that given to him by Comrade Ivanov who, in turn, got the information from the Communist Party member who served as liaison with the various Russian investigatory agencies. Viktor wrote what he was told. It took him fifteen minutes. The next step was to drink some strong black coffee, look out the window at the snow, and wait, knowing that the story would probably be killed or rewritten by someone else even though it was and would be no more than ten lines at most. Even then the governing committee of Pravda might kill it entirely at their morning meeting. He considered going to the toilet, but sighed and decided to wait in the hope that the call might come through and still give him the chance to get a few hours of sleep. His neck felt gritty in spite of the cold draft from the window. He made a promise to himself to take a cold bath if the call came through and he got home within an hour.

  At three o’clock that morning three very young men in black leather jackets and jeans were clearing out the back of a small truck. All three wore their hair long and brushed back like American pictures they had seen of James Dean or Polish pictures of Zbigniew Cybulski. Both Dean and Cybulski had died violently and young. At least two of the three young Muscovites half-longed for the same fate and imagined an underground reputation that they would not be around to experience. All three had taken American nicknames, “Jimmy,” “Coop,” and “Bobby,” all three had guns, all three wore fixed smiles, all three were frightened by what they had been doing and were about to do.

  At three o’clock that morning, Rudolt Kroft was cleaning his police uniform, which was odd. It was odd not because it was three o’clock in the morning, but because Rudolt Kroft was not a policeman. He lived in a four-story wooden building that sagged dangerously to the left, which may have been politically valid as a metaphor, but held no meaning other than structural for Kroft and the other tenants. Kroft, in contrast to his building, sagged to the right as a result of a circus accident many years before. He was still agile and a capable actor as evidenced by his successful role as policeman for the last few months, but he was also cold, very cold in his sagging building of outcasts and foreigners. It pleased him to stay warm by cleaning the uniform and thinking of his role for the coming day.

  At three o’clock that morning Ivan Sharikov dropped his fare on Lenin Avenue and accepted the eighty kopeks fare, knowing he would get no tip. Party officials gave no tips and Ivan expected none. The fare, heavily bundled and in bad humor, had slipped getting out of the cab as he walked to his apartment door. Ivan, whose neck was fat and slow, turned away hiding a satisfied grin, and flipped on the green light in his windshield to show he was free to take another fare. He slowly put his taxi into gear and backed into the street slipping as the thin, nearly bald tires tried to grab the street and clawed only at ice.

  Ivan’s prospect of making any real money that night was slim, but he owed too much and knew he could not sleep anyway with the pain in his back. When the pain got really bad, he considered going to the clinic, but the clinic wait might be hours, and the doctor, if he even got to see one, would send him back to work with meaningless pills or worse, he would be sent to the hospital ward and lose his chance to make up some of the money he owed his brother-in-law. In the old days, even a dozen years ago, he could have told his brother-in-law what to do with his loan, but time had reversed their positions. Ivan had grown fat, old, and tired and Misha had grown lean, hard, and resentful from his years at the packing house.

  Ivan’s plan was to go back to the center of town in the hope of picking up another late-working middle-level government official. The really big officials would have their own cars. The little officials could not afford a taxi. The middle officials who lived on the fringes of Tolstoy Street could pay the price but were never good for conversation or a tip. As his tires caught ice and turned slowly, easing the taxi into the street, Ivan spotted a lone dark figure standing at the curb fifty feet away. The figure seemed to be waiting and swayed a little, perhaps drunk. Ivan’s dull eyes squinted with the possibility of an easy fare and he drove forward toward the figure.

  At three o’clock Porfiry Rostnikov made two phone calls and said ten words to each of the men he called:

  “Rostnikov here, come to three-forty-four Dmitri Ulyanov Street. Apartment six-hundred-twelve.”

  Although he had been fully asleep when the phone rang, Emil Karpo had answered before the first short ring had finished bouncing off the walls of his small room. He said nothing when he heard Rostnikov’s brief message followed by a click ending the connection. Karpo looked at his clock in the dim street light from his undraped and unshaded window. It was three exactly and he would remember it if a report were called for later. Karpo remembered everything, every detail. This recall had started more than twenty years earlier to protect himself and it soon became so much a part of him that it was no longer conscious. His mind was filled with data, and his one bookcase was lined with notebooks full of observations which would probably never be called for or used. He stood up from his mattress, his dark body catching the dim light from the window. He dressed quickly, without looking. All his clothes were the same. He had two suits, both grey-black, both neatly pressed, both quite old. He had five shirts, all a dull white, all starched. He had three ties, all dark and unstylishly thin even for a Moscow which perversely prided itself on being five years behind the rest of the world in fashion, and he had the uniform of the male Muscovite, a long black coat and black fur hat.

  Karpo knew who lived at 344 Dmitri Ulyanov Street, but he did no more than register the fact and feel the reinforcement of something like pride at having the information. He refused to conjecture or guess about what it might mean. Guessing was a waste of time and if anyone were to ask him what he thought was happening, he could honestly say he had no idea, at least no idea anywhere near the conscious level. Karpo was a man who kept his thoughts and his body to himself. He lived for his duty, coolly, and without humor. When he had started with the old M.V.B., he had quickly earned the nickname of “The Tatar” because of his slightly slanted eyes, high cheekbones, tight skin, and expressionless dark face. That was twenty years ago. Now, the younger men had taken to calling him “The Vampire” for many of the same reasons and his preference for working nights. He was, at six-foot-three, tall for a Tatar and not pale enough to be a vampire. Karpo had not a single friend, which suited him. He would tolerate no slackness in others and radiated cold, silent fury toward those who did not devote themselves fully to their tasks, particularly the seemingly endless task of cleansing Moscow. He also had ma
ny enemies among the continued offenders of what passed for an underworld in Moscow. And that too suited him.

  Karpo had only one conscious secret, the savage headaches that came for no apparent reason and stayed for periods of an hour to half a day. The pills he had been given years earlier helped to control the pain to the point where he could work in spite of it. There were times he even welcomed the pain as a test of his body and mind, a test to prepare him for a greater pain from some unnamed enemy of the state at some unspecified moment in the future that would probably never come.

  When he was fully dressed and had brushed back his dark thinning hair, Karpo stepped out into the hall outside of his small cell-like room. He closed the door quietly, setting the hair-thin wire that would later tell him if anyone had visited him or might be inside waiting when he returned. He expected no such visit and had never had one.

  “Rostnikov here, come to three-forty-four Dimitri Ulyanov Street. Apartment six-hundred-twelve.”

  “What…” Sasha Tkach started to answer, but cut himself off and began to say, “I’ll be right there,” but the line went dead before his last word.

  The phone had rung six times in the two-room apartment. Sasha’s mother slept no more than a foot from the phone in the bedroom but she was nearly deaf. He had really wanted the phone in the other room, the living room/kitchen where he and his wife Maya slept, but the phone had been installed when he was at work and he did not want to complain. The phone had been a sign of his priority, his standing as an investigator, a person to be respected, but it was a privilege one did not want to abuse. So the phone remained in the bedroom. He gathered his clothes quietly and went back out to the living room.

  “You’re going?” Maya said, sitting up on her elbows. She turned on the light. Her hair was long and straight and covered part of her sleepy face. She had an accent of the Ukraine. To Tkach, who was twenty-eight and had been married for four months, it still sounded exotic. She had come to Moscow to work as an accountant in the State License Bureau and he had met her there while doing a few days of investigation on a black market case. The case had been a success. They recovered four cartons of American blue jeans which had been turned over to the case procurator after Tkach committed the first legal violation of his adult life. He had taken one pair and given it to Maya.