It was little more than the cell of a monk. Karpo, in fact, had set up the room to resemble that of Lenin’s original Moscow room. Emil Karpo had zealously believed that Marxism would eventually weed out the corruption of individuals and that Communism would unite the world. He had been certain of his convictions from the first meeting he went to as a small boy holding his father’s hand, when he saw the red banner with the hammer and sickle covering the large wall behind the speakers who stood on the low platform and shouted with passion of the transformations that Soviet Communism would bring to the world. On that night, at that meeting, the workers, except for his father and a few others, had shouted till it hurt the boy’s ears. His father, whom he now resembled, had simply squeezed the boy’s hand.
Karpo had become a policeman in order to help stop those who broke the laws of the state and impeded the progress of the Communist dream. The Party, flawed as it might have become, had been his religion. Now the Soviet Union was gone and a group of opportunists calling themselves Communists were threatening to take over the government in free elections. But Karpo knew theirs was not the Communism in which he had believed. That was dead. These new Communists said they would rid Russia of the mafias and reunite the Soviet Union. Karpo, who was on the cold concrete floor doing pushups, knew that it was too late. The people had exchanged the corruption of Communism and its promise for the corruption of capitalism and its inflation, lack of direction, and the growth of a wealthy criminal element. The bribes were still necessary. The food was more scarce. The political promises now were more hollow.
It was not Communism that had failed. It was humanity. The animalism of humanity, the weakness of people, the ease of corruption, the lack of real commitment from top to bottom, had destroyed the dream that could have been a reality. It had all relied ultimately on faith, not on God and not on the system, but in people, the Russian people, the Soviet people, to commit themselves to Communism and its ultimate promise. Karpo now had little faith that the people had the ability to escape centuries of corrupt survival under any system. Capitalism was not the savior. It was only another facade behind which the weak and uncommitted-almost everyone-could hide.
Only Mathilde had helped him through, and the example of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who behaved as if nothing surprised him, as if society was mad regardless of who controlled it, as if only individual people-women, children, the innocent and relatively innocent-counted. Rostnikov’s attitude had frequently gotten him into trouble with the MVD, the KGB, and military intelligence, but he had managed to survive. Karpo had decided early in his career that he would stay with and respect this limping eccentric man who frequently smiled at the folly of the world.
Karpo finished his one hundredth push-up, rolled onto his back, put his legs up on his bed, and began to do his several hundred abdominal crunches. He had no need to count. His body told him how many he had done. Next he propped himself on his arms so that his long legs could reach into the air. He began pumping his legs, bicycling, slowly for a minute or two, then faster and faster. He continued for fifteen minutes and was barely breathing hard when he stopped and rose. He had worked up a very slight sweat, and in spite of the coldness of the room, he was warm. He got a towel from his bottom drawer, one of the three towels he owned, took the blue plastic box with the bar of soap inside, wrapped the towel around himself, and went into the hall. It was not yet six. The narrow hallway with the dull gray walls was empty. Even those who had to be at work early waited for the policeman to take his morning shower and get back to his room before lining up to douse themselves in the trickle of quick cold water. No one wanted to run into the Vampire. It was an unwritten rule of the building off Vernadskogo Prospekt. Many wondered why a policeman, a detective, chose to live in a place like this when he could certainly do much better, but he had been there as long as any of them could remember.
Back in his room, Karpo, fully dry, hung his towel on a bar next to the window and slowly dressed. His watch told him that he had two hours to work on his computer. Already he had uncovered some interesting data that he wanted to discuss with Porfiry Petrovich. Karpo had a possible lead in the case of the person who had been sending letter and box bombs to seemingly unrelated Moscovites. One of the victims had died. Eight had been seriously injured.
He focused on this as he worked on his computer. All else was blocked out, even the call the night before from Pankov, the small, quivering assistant to the director of the Office of Special Investigation, Colonel Snitkonoy, the Gray Wolfhound. Pankov had simply said that the director ordered the appearance of all members of the office for a meeting the next morning at nine. The morning briefing was always scheduled, and Karpo thought briefly that there must be something of great importance at issue if a call had to be made. He knew better than to ask Pankov what the issue might be. He would know soon enough.
THREE
Elena Timofeyeva sat at the table in Colonel Snitkonoy’s office between Porfiry Petrovich and Emil Karpo. To the right of Karpo sat Sasha Tkach, who looked decidedly tired. To Rostnikov’s left sat Akardy Zelach, who looked more than uncomfortable. The hulking, stoop-shouldered creature who was known for his loyalty but not his intellect, looked decidedly concerned. To Zelach’s left was an empty chair, and this struck Elena as most unusual. That was the place of Major Gregorovich, the second in rank in the office, the man who everyone knew disliked Rostnikov, thought the Wolfhound a fool, and leaked information to other investigative offices. Gregorovich had been responsible for particularly sensitive cases involving the military or other investigative agencies. Officially he was assigned to the office only temporarily, but the assumption was that he was there to watch the Wolfhound and, at some point in the future, as a reward for his reliable revelation of the investigations of the Office of Special Investigation to other agencies, to take over when the Wolfhound moved on or retired.
But the major was now missing from the table. Elena assumed the man must be ill, on a secret assignment, or dead. The latter possibility did not cause her distress. To the left of the empty seat sat Pankov, almost a dwarf, notebook open before him, stack of reports rising like a small fortification before him to ward off the director’s wrath. Pankov fidgeted, as always, and tugged at the too-tight collar of his familiar gray suit.
It had also not escaped Elena’s attention that a new member of the office had joined them. There was not enough room behind the table except for Major Gregorovich’s empty seat, so a chair had been placed at one end of the table next to Sasha. In the chair sat Iosef Rostnikov, Porfiry Petrovich’s son. He smiled at Elena, who resisted smoothing her hair and looking at him. Iosef, tall, broad like his father, and with a handsome face and curly dark hair, had begun to smile more like his father. For more than a year after being released from the army and serving in the purgatory of Siberia or the battleground of Afghanistan, Iosef had devoted himself to drama, antigovernment plays in little theaters, plays that Iosef often wrote and acted in. At some point, a change had come to Iosef Rostnikov. He had given up the theater and applied for the National Police which was a bit reluctant to take on the son of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who might pass information on to his father. However, they were offered little choice. He was qualified and a directive came down from the Ministry of the Interior that he should be hired. Iosef had been on patrol with a taciturn young partner calming drunks and feuding families, rousting teenagers, taking notes on beatings and robberies, and learning what he could. The National Police had been only too happy to let the younger Rostnikov join his father in the Office of Special Investigation when the request had come through.
But something else had happened to change Iosef. He had declared one night at a party in his parents’ apartment, a party where he had been accompanied by one of the most beautiful girls Elena had ever seen, that he intended to marry Elena Timofeyeva. At first, Elena had considered it a drunken joke. But he had continued to pursue her. In the mirror each morning Elena saw a smooth-skinned, pink, and good
-looking if a bit pudgy face with straight blond hair. Elena fought an endless battle to keep her weight down. She had before her the image of her aunt and her mother and was convinced that she was doomed to become a compact tank. She had, the year before, had a brief affair with a Cuban policeman while on duty with Porfiry Petrovich for an investigation in Havana. The policeman was married, and she was never quite sure whether he had been truly attracted to her or had seduced her to keep track of Rostnikov’s investigation. She had decided it was probably both.
Elena looked at the clock on the wall. It was about thirty seconds to nine. She glanced at Rostnikov, who was drawing pictures of birds in his open notebook with the word ‘colors?’ neatly printed at the bottom of the sheet.
At precisely nine the door to the office opened, and a man in a blue suit and matching striped tie stepped in. His hair was dark and cut short. His body was lean. He stood before them, hands folded in front of him. He looked at each of them. His face was rugged and clean-shaven, his most notable feature being his bushy eyebrows, which made him look just a bit like a younger, trimmer version of Leonid Brezhnev. Elena guessed his age at a little over fifty. Rostnikov looked up from his notebook, and his eyes met those of the man who had entered and now spoke.
“My name,” he said in a confident tenor, “is Igor Yakovlev. Colonel Snitkonoy has been promoted and made general. His presence was required in Saint Petersburg, where he will be head of security for the Hermitage. This is a permanent appointment. Major Gregorovich has been transferred and will be providing security for a prominent member of the congress, Citizen Zhirinovsky.”
The transfer, Elena knew, was a nightmare any sane person would dread, to be responsible for the protection of the probably mad regressive Nationalist who cried out for assassination from those he offended on a daily basis and who blamed the Jews for a long list of the ills of Russian history. The crazy Zhirinovsky was reportedly half Jewish himself.
Yakovlev looked directly at each of those around the table. Pankov clearly knew what was happening. Karpo showed no particular sign of interest. Rostnikov studied the face of the man before him. Sasha was alert and wary. Iosef had an open look of curiosity. Zelach seemed confused and looked around the table for reassurance. None came.
“I,” said Yakovlev, “am the new director of the Office of Special Investigation. I expect you to function with the efficiency you have displayed since the establishment of this office. While we give great credit for this success to Colonel Snitkonoy, I intend to function at an even higher level. I know about each of you, your strengths and weaknesses, your loyalties.”
With this he looked directly at Rostnikov.
“My background, as Inspector Rostnikov knows, was in the former KGB,” Yakovlev said. “I no longer hold any rank within State Security. I renounced such rank to accept this position when it was offered by a member of the government through the Ministry of the Interior. I see it as an opportunity. That is all you will ever hear from me regarding my background or professional life. I have no doubt that Porfiry Petrovich will give you further information about me if he so chooses or I do not order him to give no further information. I will not so order him. Questions?”
No one spoke or moved.
“You will all, including Citizen Pankov, receive a raise of ten percent effective immediately,” he said. “I expect a fifty percent greater effort from you in return. Next, these morning meetings will end. They are a waste of time you could be spending at work. We will meet infrequently as needed. Meanwhile, I am officially naming Inspector Rostnikov assistant director of this office. He will move into the office formerly occupied by Major Gregorovich. You will report to him, all of you except Pankov, who will report to me only. Chief Inspector Rostnikov will meet with me on a regular basis to report on your progress and to receive new cases that come to my desk. You will come to me directly only if I send for you. You all understand?”
A few said da while others, including Elena, nodded their heads.
“Good,” he said. “You all have work. You are all dismissed with the exception of Chief Inspector Rostnikov. Pankov has already prepared all the necessary papers for your salary increases and I have signed them. The money for these raises will come out of the office’s annual budget. The salary of the director will be reduced to cover this fiscal charge.”
Slowly, one by one, a bit dazed, they all stood up, Karpo first, followed by Sasha and Elena. Iosef looked at his father and then at Yakovlev, who hovered over Porfiry Petrovich. The new director’s hands were now folded behind his back. He continued to stand tall.
Iosef got up and a confused Zelach followed him. Pankov took up the rear and closed the door behind them. When they were gone. Yakovlev said, “Well, Washtub?”
“Well, Yak?”
Yakovlev smiled, his bushy eyebrows rising. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses, which he carefully placed over nose and ears.
“I need you,” said Yakovlev.
Rostnikov shrugged.
“I need a one-legged troublemaker whose sarcasm matches Gogol’s,” the Yak said. “I need an honest man. I need the loyalty you get from those who will now be working for you. I am not simply flattering you. I need you, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“I know,” said Rostnikov. “But you are giving me more credit than I deserve.”
“I reserve the right as your superior to maintain a small pocket of doubt on all these counts.”
“It would be foolish to do otherwise,” said Rostnikov. “And you are no fool.”
“We have been on opposite sides on more than one occasion,” said Yakovlev, moving to the end of the table and taking the seat Iosef had vacated.
Rostnikov nodded. He turned his head to face the director at eye level. The turn was awkward with his artificial leg, but it was not painful. Rostnikov knew the man before him as a ruthless member of the KGB. He had served under a general who committed suicide when the coup against Gorbachev failed. The suicide had been announced officially as a heart attack. Yakovlev had not been promoted. Nor had he been dismissed or demoted. He still had his protectors. Since the fall of the Soviet Union Yakovlev had moved into the shadows till this moment. He was smart, but more important, he was khitry, cunning. Rostnikov knew he had killed on more than one occasion at the order of the now deceased general and probably others as well. There were stories of interrogation sessions conducted by the Yak in Lubyanka, sessions that the subject did not survive.
“Everyone who was at this table, with the possible exception of Pankov and Zelach,” said the Yak, “knows that the Wolfhound is a fool. He is, however, a threat to no one, and he looks good in uniform. I expect he will be a great success in Saint Petersburg and consider himself fortunate to have gotten what he considers to be a promotion.”
“You may underestimate him,” said Rostnikov.
“You contradict me?” said Yakovlev, suddenly standing. “That is precisely what I need from you. Honesty, intelligent assessments of people and situations, and loyalty. Do I have them?”
“May I expect the same from you?” said Rostnikov, putting an X through two of his birds in flight.
“Would you believe me if I simply said yes?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “With the knowledge that a situation might well arise in the future. If that were to happen, I would hope that you would give me some advance indication that I could no longer rely on your loyalty.”
“The answer to your question,” said Yakovlev, “is yes.”
“And my answer, too, is yes,” said Rostnikov.
“And now we can get to work,” said the Yak. “I want a briefing on the murder of the four Jews last night.”
Yakovlev moved behind the desk that had a day or two ago belonged to Colonel Snitkonoy. He folded his hands before him and waited. From behind the table where he sat, Rostnikov opened the file he had brought with him.
He had been honest with Yakovlev, though he had not revealed that he had learned of his appo
intment four days earlier from Anna Timofeyeva, who had gotten the information from an old friend in the procurator general’s office. Anna had told no one else, not even her niece. In part her motivation was to suggest to him that he protect Elena, but she knew he would do so to the best of his ability in any case. In part it was to prepare him for a man who could not readily be trusted. It was, in fact, likely that Rostnikov was aware of the change before Colonel Snitkonoy himself.
Yakovlev, Rostnikov decided, had been reasonably honest with him. However, Anna had also suggested to Porfiry Petrovich that it had been Yak’s idea to leak the news of his appointment through the unwitting dupe in the procurator general’s office. Yakovlev would have wanted nothing unexpected from his new second in command at this meeting. He would have wanted Rostnikov to have some time to come to a conclusion about the abrupt change.
Rostnikov looked at the open file, closed it, and did what he knew Yakovlev wanted. He told him what had happened in simple terms and gave some of his ideas on how he planned to follow up.
Outside the office on the top floor of Petrovka, there came the sudden barking of dozens of dogs, the National Police dogs. With the rise in gang activity and street crime, there should have been more police, but police were expensive compared to dogs, so there were now more dogs, and they were louder when something upset them or it was time to eat. Occasionally a dog would disappear, and the rumor ran through the building that some patrol officers were taking the dogs home for food.
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