“Yes,” replied Zhenya.
“And you, inspector,” the old man said in his heavy accent, “are to take no notes and make no reference to this interview in any trial that might take place without my direct permission.”
“And in your absence?” Rostnikov asked innocently.
“To whomever occupies this office. You walk dangerously, comrade,” Drozhkin said between clenched teeth.
“I don’t mean to,” said Rostnikov. “I simply wish to get my job done.”
“As do we all.” Drozhkin moved back to his desk, and Zhenya stepped into the hall with Rostnikov behind him. Rostnikov reached back to close the door, but the voice of the old man inside stopped him.
“Now that we are friends,” Drozhkin said with a touch of irony that sent a chill through Rostnikov, “I think I can give you some confidential news. Your son’s brigade has been sent to Afghanistan. That is confidential information. I thought you would be proud and happy to know.”
“Yes, I am, and I thank you for your thoughts and consideration, comrade,” Rostnikov managed to get out as he closed the door behind him.
As he limped after the rapidly moving Zhenya, the news struck him like blows from steel weight bars. Iosef was in a place where Russian soldiers were being killed. Visions of his own war, of death, of Rostov, sliced through Rostnikov, and fear for his son brought burning moisture to his armpits. But he also thought, at one level of consciousness, that Colonel Drozhkin had seemed overly concerned, responsible, and emotional; that he had invested a great deal in this case of Aleksander Granovsky. The colonel had said too much. True, he had provoked Rostnikov to intemperate statement, but he, himself, had been as guilty. Age, responsibility, concern over possible blame for Granovsky’s death or at least of negligence might account for it, but a K.G.B. man of Drozhkin’s age should surely have learned to control himself, to weather many crises.
Zhenya stopped before a door and Rostnikov hurried to catch up.
“Fifteen minutes,” Zhenya said.
“Fifteen minutes,” Rostnikov agreed.
The room was small and bare. Khrapenko, young and nervous-looking, was pacing the floor. He stopped as Rostnikov entered, tried to pull himself together and, before the policeman could speak, said, “I am Khrapenko.”
And, thought a puzzled Rostnikov, you look very close to being a fool, which means there will be two of them in this room for fifteen minutes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Though there are rules and regulations, restrictions and requirements, it is no easier in Moscow to find a killer or a saint than it is in New York, Tokyo, or Rome. If the world does not know this, the police do, and so they learn to value patience and good shoes.
Sasha Tkach had begun his day and was putting his patience to practice.
He was sitting in a small, surprisingly warm room drinking a cup of tea. He had lost the opportunity to remove his coat, and he had lost the initiative in the conversation when the man to whom he was speaking, Simon Lvov, had greeted him warmly, invited him in and offered him tea. Lvov was a tall man of seventy-five who stooped over slightly and smoked a pipe. His dark grey hair was unkempt, and perched on his huge nose were the glasses all too familiar to Russians, the standard dark, round frames like those of the American comedian Harold Lloyd. Tkach had been prepared for hostility, trickery, deception, but not for this warm man in a dark cardigan sweater who ushered him in and made him sit in a soft, ancient chair.
“You are a young man,” Lvov said, simply, in reply to Tkach’s first question about Granovsky. It was clear that, from some source, Lvov had heard about Granovsky’s death. It was also clear that he was not in a state of deep mourning. According to the information Tkach had, this Lvov had been a scientist-an agronomist or something; he was one of Moscow’s leading dissidents and had worked closely with the murdered Granovsky. Yet for a scientist he was maddeningly indirect.
Before long Tkach had completely lost control of the interview, and Lvov, sitting comfortably at a small table, leaned forward on his elbows and watched the puffs of smoke from his pipe while he told a parable.
“Once there was a powerful warden in a prison in another country, let us call that country Peru, shall we?”
“Yes,” agreed Tkach, sipping his tea and assuming he was watching the first of stages of the man’s senility. “Peru.”
“Well,” Lvov continued, “a friend of mine had the misfortune to find himself in that prison, and one night the warden had my friend brought into a large room filled with guards and newspaper reporters. It was very late at night and my friend, in prison for counter-revolutionary activity, had been sleeping. He rubbed his eyes at the huge gathering and rubbed them again when he saw that the fat warden wore a rare smile under his great mustache. The warden ordered my friend to a table in the center of the room on which stood, or rather slumped, a black cloth bag. The conversation in the room stopped, and the warden cleared his throat.
“ ‘An anmesty has been called for all political prisoners in honor of the one hundreth anniversary of liberation day,’ said the warden with a sweep of his hand. ‘However, since this prison contains only the worst and most dangerous elements, our president is reluctant to include you and your fellows. But our president is a fair man and in public display he has ordered me to give you an even chance to secure liberation for yourself and the others who plotted against the state. In that bag are two small white balls. On one ball is written “freedom” and on the other “prison.” You will, by virtue of your high rank in the counter-revolutionary conspiracy, place your hand in that bag and remove one of the balls. If the ball contains the word “freedom,” you all go free. If it contains the word “prison,” then you all remain. The press has been invited to prove that we abide by our word. Now take out a ball and let us see what your fate is.’
“Do you see my friend’s dilemma, Officer…?”
“Lvov, no, I…” said Tkach, suddenly needing very much to urinate.
“My friend was no fool,” Lvov went on, examining the bowl of his pipe. “He knew that the fat warden with the great mustache hated him, and what better way to get rid of an enemy in prison than to make him the object of hatred of his fellow inmates? Surely, my friend knew, if he selected the ball marked ‘prison’ the other prisoners would hear of it, be told of it, and he knew there were those among the prisoners whose minds had been eroded by brutality and who might very well kill my friend for his ill luck and theirs. My friend pretended to still be sleepy as his mind worked rapidly. There is no chance of pulling the right ball, he thought. The warden would not look so confident with an even chance of losing his pets.
“The truth was obvious to my friend. Both balls have the word ‘prison,’ and it made no difference which one he picked. No one would dare challenge the powerful warden by asking to see the remaining ball, least of all my friend, who knew that any effort to do so would surely result in his own death. But remember, my friend was a clever man and he made up his mind quickly.
“He strode to the table, plunged his hand into the bag, grabbed a ball, and without looking at it, threw it into his mouth and swallowed it in one gulp, almost choking. A gasp rose from the crowd, and the warden reached for his pistol.
“ ‘What are you trying to do?’ shouted the purple-faced little man. ‘Nothing,’ answered my friend innocently, pretending a combination of stupidity and drowsiness. ‘I thought I was supposed to eat it. Anyway, there is no harm done. All you have to do is see which ball remains in the bag and the one I ate is, by elimination, the other one.’ More tea Inspector Tkach?”
“Officer Tkach,” Tkach corrected. “No thank you, but if…”
“Well,” continued Lvov, examining the bowl of his pipe, “A sharp-featured young reporter standing near my friend shouted, ‘Ridiculous. Ridiculous, but true.’ A murmur of approval ran through the reporters, who were anxious to discover the fate of the prisoners. The warden, teeth clenched and eyes magnificent with hatred fixed on my friend, dumped the
ball onto the table and it bounced, bounced, bounced toward the sharp-featured young reporter who snatched it and read it.
“ ‘Freedom,’ said the reporter handing the ball to the warden. ‘This ball says “freedom.” He swallowed the ball that said “prison.” ’ In seconds the room was clear, and my friend was surrounded by guards and faced by the evil warden. Several weeks later my friend was found dead; someone had stabbed him with a-”
“Sickle,” Tkach supplied.
Lvov pointed his pipe at the young detective and nodded, pushing his glasses back. “Yes, I think it was something like that. No one ever discovered whether he had been killed by guards or prisoners.”
Lvov rose and stretched, trying to straighten up, but was refused that pleasure by his body.
“Outsmarted himself,” said Tkach.
“No, oh no,” Lvov said with a pained grin. “Not at all. He had been absolutely correct. Both balls had ‘prison’ marked on them. The sharp-featured reporter had used the opportunity to do a good turn for the powerful warden, who rewarded the reporter years later by having him imprisoned on some false charge. Then the young reporter told the truth, but it was too late to do my friend any good, and since the warden denied it, it did no good for the reporter or the remaining prisoners.
“That is indeed a sad tale,” said Tkach, finishing his tea and forcing himself out of the comfortable chair. “Am I to gather from it that you will not cooperate in my investigation?”
Lvov shrugged. “I’d be happy to cooperate. I will cooperate, but I am afraid there is nothing I can tell you. Nothing that would do Granovsky or me or you any good, nothing that would help, you see?”
“Help who?” said Tkach.
“Who are we trying to help?” Lvov countered.
“If you could answer me with an answer instead of a question or an evasion,” Tkach answered irritably, “I could-”
“All right,” Lvov answered, suddenly dropping his whimsy. “Who would it help?”
Tkach was confused. The answer seemed so obvious.
“We want to find the person who murdered Aleksander Granovsky,” he answered reasonably. “Don’t you?”
“That depends on who you find, doesn’t it?”
“Whoever it is…” Tkach began.
“If it is some poor madman, some enemy, will that bring Granovsky back?”
“More questions,” sighed Tkach.
“Yes, and more. If it is the K.G.B., will they be tried?”
“I don’t see…”
“That is right,” sighed Lvov enormously, “you do not see. I have no answers for you, young man, only questions and parables. I’ll tell you but one thing. Aleksander Granovsky was a perfect icon, a man who enjoyed the prospect of martyrdom and who enjoyed exercising power. He had few friends and many enemies. To know him was to dislike him. The government knew and feared him. The same was true of those who simply met him waiting in lines for tea. Moscow is your suspect. You have interviewed one. You have but six or seven million left. I bid you good luck and good day.”
Tkach’s confusion was enormous, as was the call of his bladder. No one had ever spoken to him like this. Everyone feared the police.
“Would you rather I have you brought to Petrovka for questioning?” Tkach tried.
Lvov shrugged and smiled.
“If it pleases you,” he said, filling his pipe and searching for a match. “You will get no more. The problem, young man, is that you can no longer threaten a man who has nothing to lose. I am old. I am sick and possibly dying. I am not permitted to work, and I have no family. What will you take from me, my pipe?” And with this question, Lvov threw the pipe against the wall. Pieces of tobacco rained out and Tkach watched the old man’s shoulders sag.
He went out the door closing it softly behind him.
“The toilet is at the end of the hall,” Lvov’s voice came through the thin door.
It was slightly after noon when Tkach made his way back to Petrovka, which was alive with activity. People with briefcases hurried past, arguing. Dirty men in near rags being hurried along. Shouts heard through thick doors. A typical day for the police. The building restored Sasha Tkach’s confidence, which had been shaken by his experience of the morning.
When Tkach entered the inspector’s small office at the end of the large bustling room full of detectives, Rostnikov whispered, “Close the door behind you.” Karpo was sitting in one of the two chairs, holding the sickle in his hand. Tkach closed the door behind him and took off his coat, eager for information.
“Something’s broken?” he asked.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I want to eat the pirozhki I bought on the way back.” And with that, he pulled a brown paper bundle from his desk drawer and unwrapped it. “Would you care for some?”
Karpo didn’t bother to respond. Tkach hesitated.
“Take it,” sighed Rostnikov. “It’s more than I should have.”
Tkach took the sandwich and began to eat.
Karpo reported first. The sickle was a kind no longer manufactured, one made sixty years ago by a small company in Tula. Used by small farms. No fingerprints. Nothing.
Tkach, between bites, reported his failure with Lvov; he left out the parable, most of the verbal exchange and the information about his weak bladder. He also reported on similarly fruitless interviews with four other friends of Granovsky.
“One thing,” Tkach added. “As much as they refused to talk, they felt compelled to tell how much they disliked Granovsky as a man. His enemies were not just political. I have eight more names on the primary list. If I exhaust that, perhaps I can get more leads.”
There was little room to maneuver in the small office, and it had no sense of home or comfort. There were no pictures on the walls. The desk was clear except for a wooden box piled high with reports and memos. There was no privacy either. The walls were thin and confidence was kept only by whispering.
Rostnikov finished his sandwich and wiped crumbs onto the floor.
“And?” he asked.
Tkach chewed, hesitated.
“Nothing,” he said taking another bite.
“And what is nothing?” Rostnikov persisted.
“These people are clever,” the young man finally said trying not to look at Karpo. “They use words better…It might be a good idea to put someone else on this part of the investigation. I’m not afraid of it, but someone more…more able in this line might obtain more.”
“You are not out there to outthink them, but to seduce them with your apparent innocence,” Rostnikov said. He let out an enormous belch of satisfaction. “You let them talk, let them be clever, let them think you a fool. They will say more to prove their superiority than a clever man could get from them in combat. What do you think, Karpo?”
“We use what we have,” agreed Karpo. “You must learn to use what you have.”
“And I,” said Rostnikov, folding his hands on his belly, “had the privilege to interview a true fool. Tell me, Karpo, did you think the K.G.B. had any fools as agents?”
Karpo’s eyes turned from the sickle to the raised brown eyes of the inspector.
“It is not impossible,” Karpo admitted. “There are sometimes political reasons there as there are here. It is curious, but the K.G.B. is composed of men. Men are animals. Animals are not perfect. We can only strive.”
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov, “but some of us can try harder than others, can they not?”
Karpo shrugged.
Once each month, time and duty permitting, Emil Karpo, the Tatar, the vampire, made a pilgrimage to a small café off Gorky Street. In that bar, he met Matilde, a part-time prostitute, part-time telephone operator. It was the only illegal act Emil Karpo engaged in, and he explained it to himself as the only imperfection he could not fully control in his body. A small part of him remained animal. It disturbed him, but he had learned to accept it. What he did not know was that Porfiry Rostnikov was well aware of his monthly outing and fully approved of this �
��weakness.” If it weren’t for this vulnerability, Rostnikov was sure he would have been unable to work with Karpo. He could not stand saints of any religion. Without weakness, man might no longer be an animal, but he would come close to being a robot.
There were places to go, things to do. Rostnikov would now have to make a report to Procurator Timofeyeva, and the slow-moving investigation would have to move more quickly. And then the door to the small room burst open.
Officer Yuri Grishin, a distant relative of a high official in the Moscow police, put his head in the door. It was a huge head with a face that looked as if a wall had fallen on it, but it was the family face.
“I’m sorry Inspector, but Ludmilla said I should break in and tell you. The vodka hijackers Tkach has been after. They’ve been cornered at a government store on Zvenigorod near the Byelorussian Railway Terminal.”
Rostnikov and Tkach exchanged glances.
“Go,” said Rostnikov, and Tkach rose quickly throwing on his coat.
“I would like to go too,” said Karpo, placing the sickle on the desk before Rostnikov.
Tkach paused, trying to think of something to say.
“Go,” sighed Rostnikov. “Go. In two hours, no more, you are to be back here and prepared to work through the night, both of you.” The two junior officers left the office, and Rostnikov picked up the sickle. He looked at it, smelled it, whispered to it, cursed it, and it told him nothing. Somewhere out there was a man who could-and almost certainly would-kill again, a man who had become an animal.
Rostnikov had a sudden vision of his son Iosef and imagined him being attacked by a trio of robed Arabs carrying broken bottles and rusty sickles. To destroy the image, Rostnikov swung the sickle over his head and into the desk. Instead of sinking into the wood, it skittered along the top, making a deep scratch. At the end of the top of the desk, the sickle caught the phone and the tip of the blade broke off. There are days, thought Rostnikov, where fate denies a man even the most meaningless of dramatic gestures.
The snow had fallen all through the morning and was still falling when Karpo and Tkach got out of the Volga on Zvenigorod. To Tkach, the scene seemed to be played through gauze. There were vague outlines of brown-clad police with Tete guns pointed across the broad street at an old three-story building which Tkach could barely make out. There seemed to be no life on the street. If people were curious, they were not curious enough to be in range of policemen with Tete guns at the ready. It was a sleepy image of near night though the day was still with them. Tkach knew that traffic had to be rerouted on the streets around, and in the distance he could hear the angry honking of horns, a sound frowned upon and officially forbidden, as forbidden as it was to drive a dirty car in Moscow, though such things were occasionally seen.
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