“The flyer?”
“The flyer,” Rostnikov confirmed.
“I’m not sure,” said the old man. “Might have been this morning. Might have been yesterday. I think it was today. I think it was just a little while ago. When you do the same thing every day, it’s sometimes difficult to tell one day from the other.”
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov as he watched the old man dressed in gray work clothes try to remember on which day he had seen the woman. “Assuming it was today, where did you see her?”
The man smiled and pointed upward with his free hand.
“Going to the offices, not rehearsal rooms, not the ring,” he said. “Performers don’t practice as much today as they did when I was a performer.”
Rostnikov waited for the man to tell him more, but the old man was leaning on his mop, his eyes far away, remembering some old day, some old act. Rostnikov walked in the direction of the nearest stairway and started up slowly. A chattering family—mother, father, young girl, and boy—all dressed in blue suits, came hurrying down the stairs. Rostnikov moved to the side to let them pass.
On the second floor above the lower corridor Rostnikov found a series of offices. There was the distant echo of music deep inside the building and the sound of a woman’s voice. Rostnikov followed the voice and not the music and found himself in front of a solid wooden door marked in black letters: ASSISTANT TO THE DIRECTOR.
He paused, tried to listen, but could make out only the voice and not the words. There seemed to be an edge of hysteria to the voice. Rostnikov knocked and the voice stopped. He knocked again and the door opened.
Facing him was Mazaraki, who grinned broadly and stepped back to let him enter. In a corner stood Katya Rashkovskaya. She was not grinning broadly. She was not grinning at all.
“Tavah/reeshch, Inspector,” Mazaraki said a bit too loudly. “It is good of you to visit us again. To what do I owe the pleasure of your return?”
Rostnikov looked at Katya, whose knuckles were white against her oversize purse. Her eyes met his but showed less than her pink cheeks. Porfiry Petrovich turned to Mazaraki with new interest. Mazaraki looked just as big as the detective had remembered him, but was there not a dancing in his eyes as if the moment were of great consequence?
“I was looking for Comrade Rashkovskaya,” Rostnikov said, watching the smiling mask of a face of the assistant director.
“Fortuitous,” Mazaraki said, leaning back against his desk and folding his hands across his chest.
“Perhaps,” agreed Rostnikov. “I would have been here earlier but I no longer have access to an official automobile. I have to take a bus or the metro or, in an emergency, a taxi. Do you have an automobile, Comrade Mazaraki?”
“Yes, a little Moskvich,” answered Mazaraki, his head tilted slightly to the right like a curious bird. “Very economical.”
“It’s important to drive carefully,” Rostnikov said, looking around at the office. “May I sit?”
“Please,” said Mazaraki, unfolding his arms and waving an open hand at a dark wood-and-leather chair.
Rostnikov moved the chair slightly, just enough to be able to see both Katya and Mazaraki at the same time. And enough to survey the room, which was furnished in dark wood and leather, like something out of a magazine. The desk was large and a television sat on the wide lower level of the bookcase along with a machine that was attached to it and that Rostnikov assumed was a videotape player.
“I have a modest collection of films, Inspector,” said Mazaraki, moving to the bookcase cabinets and opening one. “Even some American films, which I trust are not illegal to own.”
“I’m not interested in legal or illegal movies,” Rostnikov said, looking at the neat row of tapes. He wondered if Mazaraki were a client of the Gorgasali brothers, whose trailer was less than a mile away. Perhaps he would find out.
“I’ve got Keaton, Chaplin, Grease, Gone With the Wind, Blue Thunder, even Raiders of the Lost Ark,” said Mazaraki.
Mazaraki was running his large right hand over the tapes and looking over the policeman s head at the silent woman, who remained motionless in the corner.
“Someone in the MVD has the idea that Pesknoko was murdered,” Rostnikov said, watching Mazaraki’s eyes, which remained on Katya, revealing nothing. His lips, however, tightened.
“Someone?” said Mazaraki, closing the cabinet and moving his right hand up to play with his mustache. He pulled a longish patch above his lip downward and bit at it with his teeth.
“Someone,” Rostnikov said, examining his lap.
“You?”
Rostnikov shrugged. It was a possibility.
“And you are investigating?”
“No,” sighed Rostnikov. “The case is closed. I am investigating a hit-and-run this morning. It seems Katya Rashkovskaya was almost killed by a motorist outside her apartment building.”
“No,” said Mazaraki, moving behind his desk and looking up at Katya. “Katerina, you said nothing. After all that has happened, this is quite terrible.”
Rostnikov turned awkwardly, deliberately, to face the young woman, who still had not spoken.
“You had other things to discuss,” said Rostnikov. “Business, Katya’s future.”
“Yes,” said Mazaraki behind him.
The young woman nodded yes.
“Is it not a bit unusual,” continued Mazaraki, “that a full chief inspector is investigating a drunken driver who accidentally—”
“Your car is parked outside?” Rostnikov cut in.
Mazaraki’s smile disappeared for an instant and then returned, more fixed, more artificial, than before, the broad smile of a performer who wanted the smile to be seen forty rows back in dim light.
“My car is parked outside,” Mazaraki said, playing with his mustache.
“Well, this has been an interesting, though brief, visit,” Rostnikov said, using both arms of the chair to raise himself. “Comrade Rashkovskaya, if you are finished here, perhaps I could have a few words as you walk wherever you—”
“I’m going home,” she said softly, her eyes turning away from both men.
“Good,” said Rostnikov. “We can talk on the way.”
Mazaraki rose quickly and hurried around the desk and to the door to open it.
Rostnikov looked up at the bigger man as Katya stepped into the hall.
“Would you like to see the circus tonight, Comrade Inspector? As my personal guest?”
“I like the circus,” said Rostnikov, looking into the hall at the woman, whose eyes were fixed on the big man.
“I’ll leave your name at the box office. Would you like to bring—?”
“My wife and I would very much like to see the circus,” Rostnikov cut in.
Mazaraki bowed his head slightly, perhaps mockingly.
“I would like to see you working,” said Rostnikov. “I have the impression that you are an outstanding performer.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Mazaraki said, and Rostnikov stepped into the hall. The door closed slowly behind him.
In the hall, he caught up with Katya.
“You’ll have to walk more slowly if I’m to keep up with you.”
“I’m sorry. I really don’t want company.”
“You might find it comforting, protective.”
“I need no comforting or protection,” she said, increasing her pace.
At the bottom of the steps, about ten feet below him, she stopped and turned.
“I will take care of my business,” she said.
“I am a patient policeman,” Rostnikov said softly so she would have to strain to hear him. “At some point I will hear this story. I prefer to hear it from you, but if you are not around to tell it, I will hear it nonetheless.”
“Thank you for the plumbing books,” she replied and hurried to the front door past the old man with the mop. Her hard heels clacked and reminded Rostnikov of some piece of music, the memory of which passed almost as quickly as it had come. He watched he
r go out the door into the sunlight and turn to her right.
“She’s good,” said the old man as Rostnikov limped forward.
“I know,” said Rostnikov.
“You’ve seen her?” asked the old man.
“No.”
“Then, how … ?”
“Where does the assistant director park his car?”
The old man looked at Rostnikov with uncertainty, but answered. “Back behind the building. There’s a small lot. His space is right near the door.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov, turning toward the rear of the building.
He found the rear door with no trouble. And the car. It was black. As he stepped into the lot, he looked up at the side of the building and found the window of Mazaraki’s office. He had thought for a moment that Mazaraki’s office was farther down a bit, but the angry, smiling face of Dimitri Mazaraki, his arms folded, framed in the window, made it evident that Valerian Duznetzov had made a slight drunken mistake before he leaped from Gogol’s head. It was not a man who saw thunder whom he feared but a man who saw Blue Thunder.
SEVEN
WHEN ROSTNIKOV STEPPED AROUND THE BUILDING onto the sidewalk of Vernadksogo Prospekt, he knew he would not have to walk to the metro station. The black Volga with the darkened windows was a symbol. The heavyset man in the blue suit leaning against it was a sign, a sign he recognized. The man was smoking a cigarette. He looked at Rostnikov without emotion or a nod, and Rostnikov walked slowly toward the man and the car.
No one spoke as the man opened the car door and Porfiry Petrovich got into the back seat. A trio of young women tried not to glance at the KGB vehicle, laughed a bit too heartily at nothing, and moved quickly on. The seat was clean and soft and the car smelled of tobacco. Rostnikov did not recognize the driver. However, the man who had been leaning against the car was one of the two he had encountered yesterday in the lobby of the hospital where he had met with Drozhkin.
Rostnikov did not enjoy the ride. He did not dread it, but he did not enjoy it. He looked out the window, wondered if it would rain, wondered if he would be finished with whatever they were going to do with him in time for him to get Sarah and go to the circus. For a flash of time too thin to grasp, he even wondered if they were going to take him to a place where he would never see his wife, his son, or the light of day again. The thought, or fragment of thought, did not frighten him as much as it scratched him with a shudder of curiosity.
The ride took less than twenty minutes. They rode on large boulevards in the center lane—reserved for party members, the KGB, and dignitaries with special connections. The car pulled up to the door of the small hospital and Rostnikov was escorted inside by the burly KGB man. They were met by the second big man, in an identical blue suit, and once again they moved past the desk, to the elevator, and up to the patio, where his escorts remained in the hall as he stepped outside.
A slight wind was blowing as late afternoon approached. Drozhkin was seated in the same chair, almost in the same position, under the fifth canopy. His eyes were open and watching as Rostnikov limped forward.
“You are looking better, Colonel,” Rostnikov ventured.
“It is an illusion,” said Drozhkin, his gray hand reaching for a drink of what looked like lemonade. “I am much worse, worse by the day. Would you like to sit?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Well, you may not do so,” said Drozhkin. He sucked at a glass straw in the drink, his cheeks drawing in, his face showing what his skull would soon look like. “Do you know why?”
“You wish me to be uncomfortable, Comrade,” answered Rostnikov.
“Yes, I wish you to be uncomfortable.” Drozhkin looked at the drink with distaste and put it down. “You have made the last several years, the last years of my life, uncomfortable. You do not listen to what you are told. You don’t seem to understand the consequences of your rebelliousness. You have stepped into at least five situations in which you interfered with our work. You know that?”
Rostnikov shifted his weight, trying to ignore the discomfort that would soon become pain.
“It is difficult always to avoid the jurisdiction of the KGB, Comrade,” he said. “The lines are not always clear and …”
Drozhkin started to reach for the lemonade again and changed his mind. The effort was too great. A sudden breeze whipped his gray hair into a frenzy and settled again.
“This had nothing to do with lines,” the old man said. “I told you to stay away from the circus investigation. You remember I told you that?”
“I remember, Comrade,” said Rostnikov. “I have given up that investigation.”
“Then why did you follow the woman? Why did you go to the circus? I don’t expect the truth, but I do expect a story that will not make me think you a fool or, worse, make me think you take me for a fool.”
“I was investigating a hit-and-run case, or almost a hit and run. The victim was—”
“The Rashkovskaya woman,” Drozhkin said, sighing.
“Colonel Snitkonoy is aware of my—” Rostnikov began again, only to be cut off by Drozhkin.
“The Gray Wolfhound is a fool. I’m a dying man. I need no longer be politic. He is a fool. You know it. I know it. What is this suicide urge you possess, Porfiry Petrovich?”
The familiarity startled Rostnikov, who feared that his leg was about to give way. He examined the old man, who was shaking his head and looking at him. Drozhkin smiled, the smile of a ghost, but a smile. Rostnikov smiled back tentatively.
“It’s a good thing I’m dying, a good thing for both of us,” said the old man. “I’m afraid I’m beginning to understand you, and that might lead to liking you, and that would not be a good thing. But if you keep up behavior like this, I may yet outlive you.”
Rostnikov said nothing. He knew that in a few minutes he would begin to sway and that if he did not sit down or at least lean against something he would run the risk of collapsing.
Drozhkin reached for the half-filled glass of lemonade again, picked it up, looked at it with disgust, and threw it to the wooden floor. Shards rained on Rostnikov’s trousers, and the two burly KGB men burst through the door with pistols leveled at Porfiry Petrovich.
“I dropped a glass,” Drozhkin said, without looking at the two men, his watery eyes on Rostnikov. “Tell the nurse to come out here and clean it up when the inspector and I are finished.”
The two men departed, closing the patio door behind them.
“You look uncomfortable,” said Drozhkin, pulling a knit blanket over his knees. “Imagine what it is like to have this thing eating inside me. That is uncomfortable. You think I’m complaining?”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“Sit down, damn you. Sit down.”
Rostnikov moved forward slowly to the wooden chair and sat. His leg was stiff and straight, and he knew better from thirty-five years of experience than to try to bend it.
“You are supposed to thank me,” said Drozhkin. He threw his hands up and shook his head. “What’s the use? You must stay away from the circus, from Mazaraki, because we are watching him. We know he killed Pesknoko. We know he drove that drunken fool to jump off the Pushkin statue.”
“It was the Gogol he jumped off,” Rostnikov said.
“The Gogol, then. All right. What’s the difference?”
A great deal, thought Rostnikov. But he said nothing.
“Mazaraki has been using his tours of the socialist states to smuggle people over the borders to the West,” said Drozhkin. “They pay massive amounts, these storekeepers, black marketers, Jews, and he gets them to the borders and often beyond as troupe members, one at a time, sometimes two. He has relatives in Latvia or Lithuania who help him. I can’t remember which. Just four or five a year smuggled out for the past six years has made him wealthy.”
“I’ve seen his office,” Rostnikov said.
“Duznetzov, Pesknoko, and the woman were part of his scheme,” explained Drozhkin. “He needed them to
help him cover. At one level a brilliant idea. Circus performers don’t defect. Their lives here are good, secure. They travel, live well, get lifetime pensions when they retire. But once in a while a Mazaraki comes along, a Lithuanian or Latvian with desires for more. I’m getting tired.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rostnikov.
Drozhkin looked at his guest, his thin, cracked lips tight.
“You say that with insufficient conviction.”
“I’m sorry. I was distracted for a moment thinking about my son.”
“Ah, the son,” Drozhkin said with understanding. “You raised the stakes, Porfiry Petrovich. You tried to play in blackmail against me. It was a game of cards and I called your bluff.”
Rostnikov said nothing and then, “So you want me to stay away from Mazaraki so you can trap him when he goes on his next tour?”
“That broken glass there is dangerous,” Drozhkin said, his voice cracking. “All I need besides what I have is a foot full of glass.” Then he looked up at Rostnikov. “No, you do not understand. We want Mazaraki to continue to smuggle people out of the Soviet Union. If you must know, we have even subsidized him without his knowledge. Are you beginning to understand?”
“He is smuggling some of your people out, undercover defectors,” said Rostnikov, making the first attempt to move his locked leg and finding it most difficult.
“Something like that,” agreed Drozhkin. “The price we pay in letting a few nakhlebniki, parasites, intellectuals, run away is worth what we gain in the long run but …”
“Mazaraki is becoming a bit unstable,” said Rostnikov.
“He seems to be going mad,” agreed Drozhkin. “It’s not surprising. Six years of what he has done. Duznetzov cracked under the pressure. I don’t know about Pesknoko. My guess is that Mazaraki got rid of him because he feared he would not make it.”
“The woman,” said Rostnikov.
“The woman, yes,” said Drozhkin, pulling the blanket up to his waist. “It’s getting cold here.”
“Yes, it’s getting cold,” Rostnikov agreed, feeling quite warm.
“The woman is the least likely to crumble, but Mazaraki does not understand that and so he feels he must get rid of her.”
A Fine Red Rain Page 15