“The choice, as always, is yours, Chief Inspector,” said the Yak. “You wish to work with your son. Do so. As I say, the choice is yours. You have any questions?”
“One,” said Rostnikov, pocketing his pencil. “Why did you ask me if I knew Tsimion Vladovka rather than if I had heard of him?”
The Yak smiled. It wasn’t a very good smile. It was touched with the suggestion of a cunning secret knowledge, to make those who witnessed it slightly uncomfortable.
“In the last transmission before the rescue, Vladovka mentioned your name.”
“In what context?” asked Rostnikov, pausing as his hand reached over to close the notebook.
“There was no context. He simply said ‘Porfiry Petrovich Rostov.’”
“And was he not asked of this when he returned to earth?”
“I do not know. The fact that he mentioned your name is in the file before you. The reason he did so is not in the file you have before you.”
“Then I will begin by finding someone to whom I can ask the question,” said Rostnikov, rising far less awkwardly than he had when he first acquired his unresponsive leg. “He has a wife, children?”
“Wife died several months ago, cancer. No children. He has a father, brother, somewhere on a farm near St. Petersburg. He hasn’t seen them in years.”
“Then …”
“I have arranged for you to meet with the director of security at Star City. His name is Mikhail Stoltz. He spoke to the cosmonauts when they were brought back to earth.”
Rostnikov was up now. The Yak joined him.
“He had friends?”
“Vladovka is known to be a rather solitary man.”
“The other two cosmonauts on that flight?”
“One, Rodya Baklunov, died during an experiment on earth. He was a biologist. The other, Vladimir Kinotskin, works at Star City. It’s all in the file before you.”
“Final question,” said Rostnikov, tucking his notebook into his pocket and picking up the mug. “Why has it taken a year before anyone contacted me about this mention of my name in outer space?”
“That,” said the Yak, “you will have to ask Stoltz. And remember, do not question Vladovka when you find him. Simply find him and report his whereabouts to me.”
“And,” Rostnikov added, “I am to see to it that he remains where I locate him, or bring him to you if I believe he will run.”
“Precisely.”
Rostnikov nodded. The Yak had not said, “if you find him.” He had said, “when you find him.” This could be a sign of confidence in his chief inspector, but, Rostnikov knew, it also could be a warning. Find him, Porfiry Petrovich. Do not fail.
In the outer office, Rostnikov handed the cup to Pankov.
“You didn’t finish.”
“I had enough. It more than served its purpose. I thank you, Pankov.”
“You are welcome, Comra … Inspector Rostnikov.”
“It is hard to get rid of old habits, Pankov.”
“Very hard,” the little man said, sitting back in the chair behind his desk and placing the mug before him.
Rostnikov clasped his hands together and very gently tapped his knuckles against his chin as he looked toward the window, lost in thought.
“Can I help you with anything?” Pankov asked.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I was thinking of flying benches and flying spheres and how thoughts come to us and sometimes make contact with flying mysteries which cannot be explained by our science. Where were you when the sky went berserk, Pankov?”
Not for the first time Pankov wondered if the chief inspector were more than slightly mad, not the everyday madness of almost all Russians but a special puzzling madness.
“You mean the storm? I was here, at my desk.”
“You heard? You felt?”
“Yes.”
“Were you frightened?”
“No, yes, maybe a little.”
Pankov did not like these odd conversations with Rostnikov, but at the same time Rostnikov was the only one who talked to Pankov as if he actually existed, had feelings, ideas.
“Good, sometimes it is good to be a little frightened.”
Pankov knew his office was wired by the director. He had learned this accidentally only a few months earlier, but he should have known, should have guessed. Now he was careful and spent much of his time trying to remember if he had said anything disloyal about the director since he had replaced Colonel Snitkonoy. Pankov longed for the old days when he served as loyal lap dog and admirer of the Gray Wolfhound. But they were gone and he had yet to figure out what his role should be with his new superior.
Inside his office, Director Yaklovev was not listening to the conversation between Pankov and Rostnikov. He was taping it but he had no intention of listening to it later. In fact, it had been weeks since he last eavesdropped on his secretary. The conversations he heard yielded nothing of interest. Pankov was nearly a perfect assistant. He did what he was told to do out of fear, and he was loyal to the director for the same reason.
The Yak had come to a conclusion soon after the Soviet Union had collapsed. Some of that conclusion was the result of observing the obvious, and some had come from drawing cautious conclusions about the future.
The obvious part of his conclusion was that there was no Russian governmental, political, or economic system. Communism had gone and been replaced by a loose confederacy of flexible and inflexible powers with Yeltsin as the spokesperson, a spokesperson posing as a strong man, with little or no idea of what he was representing. There was no system. There were no checks and balances. There was a duma that complained about, supported, and waited with fear for the fall of what now served as the government.
To the Americans and the West in general, Yeltsin and his ever-changing cabinet had asserted that Russia was now a capitalist democracy in which the people voted and the government acted on their behalf. Yes, thought the Yak, they voted, but in a system in which they had no idea of what the candidates really believed or what power they actually had. Perhaps there had been no time in history when a nation was run by leaders who had no idea of what the law was or what their own philosophy might be. The new president, Putin, was no better than Yeltsin, only more sober.
Yaklovev was reasonably sure the economy would collapse again, and perhaps again, and the government would fall, each time to be replaced by a leadership that walked the line between limited reforms and capitalism and a tempered socialism that would go by the nostalgic name of Communism, socialism, or something else it really was not.
The Yak was prepared. He had weighed the names of those who were likely to take over not only the next government but the one beyond that, and he had, through his office, systematically continued the agenda he had begun when still with the KGB. He would build a collection of evidence that could be used to obtain the gratitude of any faction or factions that succeeded. It was, perhaps, a unique agenda, one that would take him quite far if he was careful, and he intended to continue to be careful.
Yaklovev was not far from making his next career move. In little more than a year he had compiled documents and tapes that would embarrass some members of the government and the business community to the point where they would be happy to cooperate with him, providing he did not ask too much. The Yak did them all favors. He asked for little or nothing beyond their support, and he did not intend to ask for more than they would be willing to give. He was not after money. He wanted to be deputy minister of the Interior, to stay there and amass more for his files and to move up to the head of the ministry if and when the times were right.
Rostnikov had helped him. Rostnikov could help him even more. With this very case, Rostnikov could provide enough for Yaklovev to consider making that move. If the times were right.
He moved to his desk and thought for an instant of the sketch Rostnikov had made in his pad while they were talking. Yaklovev had caught only a glimpse of it, but the memory was clear.
Rost
nikov had drawn a very reasonable likeness of a bird in flight. The bird’s right wing was bent at an odd angle, possibly broken, and there was a distinct tear in the bird’s eye as he looked downward, toward the earth, possibly for a place to land.
Rostnikov was eccentric. Igor Yaklovev had been told that before he became director. But Rostnikov was good, very good at his job, and those who worked with him were also good and loyal. That loyalty did not, Yaklovev knew, extend to the director, but he had an agreement with Rostnikov. Rostnikov would be given the assignments and have a free hand. When trouble arose, Yaklovev would do his best to protect Rostnikov and his group. He had proven many times that he would do so. Yaklovev knew that he was only as good as his word. Those he dealt with, friends and enemies, knew that if he declared or promised, the Yak would keep that declaration or promise. There were two conditions to his agreement with Rostnikov. First, Yaklovev would receive all the credit for the difficult cases resolved by the Office of Special Investigation. He would also accept all the responsibility for those not resolved. And so it was important that those cases which no one else wanted, those cases which were dumped on his office because they were politically sensitive or unlikely to be resolved, be dealt with successfully. The second condition was that Rostnikov and the other inspectors ask no questions about the disposal of cases. They were to bring in the information, and the director was to decide on its resolution with no questions asked.
So far, it had worked well. Yaklovev was determined that the system continue to work.
When Akardy Zelach slouched in precisely on time, precisely on the hour, Emil Karpo put down his pen, closed his notebook, and walked past him with only the slightest motion of his head to indicate that Zelach should follow.
Zelach had just enough time to place the bag of lunch his mother had prepared on the desk in his small cubicle. The bag was brown paper. The bag was wet. He didn’t have time to take off his coat as he hurried to keep up with the man in black with whom he had been teamed.
Zelach was forty-one but looked older. His eyesight had been deteriorating and he had been forced to wear glasses. The glasses were round with thin rims of brown. Unfortunately, they did not make him look any more intelligent. At first he had been reluctant to wear the glasses, afraid Chief Inspector Rostnikov or even the Yak would see his poor eyesight as a reason why he should not be a policeman.
Zelach’s mother had gotten him to wear the spectacles by pointing out that if the Office of Special Investigation had a one-legged chief, it would certainly not mind having a nearsighted inspector.
“Where are we going?” asked Zelach as he nearly ran to keep pace with the Vampire.
“Down,” said Karpo.
“Down,” Zelach repeated as they started down the stairs. “Did you see the rain?”
“I heard the storm,” said Karpo.
“They say the roof of the Bolshoi was ripped off, cars were overturned, children picked up and tossed about like … tossed about.”
“Probably gross exaggeration.”
“Probably,” said Zelach as they passed the main floor and headed down. He knew where they were going now. Perhaps he should have brought his wet lunch bag. It was not going to be a pleasant morning.
Two flights below ground level, Karpo walked to a steel door and opened it. Zelach reluctantly followed. The room was large and had the smell of the dead. Zelach knew the smell. He had been a policeman for half of his life. But the laboratory of Paulinin was something different. It was low-ceilinged, large, and cluttered with tables and shelves filled with objects and jars. Inside the jars of liquid floated specimens taken from the recently and sometimes long-dead that Paulinin had examined. Knives, saws, lamps, boxes, machine parts, clothing, table legs, and books—hundreds, maybe thousands of books—were piled on the floor. The room was a death trap if fire should break out, and the only way to the rear of the room where Paulinin now stood over a corpse was through this labyrinth of books, shelves, and objects.
Zelach followed Karpo to the rear of the room, the most lighted area of the dark space. Lights shone down on the white corpse.
Paulinin was concentrating on the hole he had opened in the skull of the bearded, slightly overweight corpse on the table before him. Paulinin’s hair was, as always, wild and his white coat stained with things that Zelach did not wish to think about.
Paulinin looked up and saw Karpo wending his way toward him. “Emil Karpo,” he said with clear pleasure. “And who is … ah, Zelach. Coffee?”
“I think not,” said Karpo. “Not at the moment. We must get to the center by ten.”
“But we are still scheduled for lunch Friday?”
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“Zelach, you are lucky to be working with this man,” Paulinin said, pointing a scalpel at Zelach but not looking up from the corpse. “Very lucky.”
Praise coming from Paulinin was always suspect. It was acknowledged that Paulinin, as good as he might be—and he was very good—was rather mad, and if he did not like you, you were certain to be subjected to undisguised scorn, abuse, or ridicule. Normally, Paulinin reserved his anger for the pathologists “upstairs.”
As good as Paulinin was, there were few in either the procurator’s office or uniformed police divisions who came to him. They preferred second-rate scientists to one who attacked them about amateur work and befouling crime scenes.
“I have been talking to your friend here,” Paulinin said, putting his hand gently on the shoulder of the corpse of Sergei Bolskanov. “He has told me a great deal. The hammer you found was, indeed, the murder weapon. Even one of the idiots called in by the fools upstairs should know that; even Doldinov, the new young one, destined for increasing incompetence and promotion, would know the rest. No, he probably would not.”
“What would he not know?” asked Karpo, standing with Zelach across the table on which the corpse lay, eyes open.
“Ah,” said Paulinin. “Our killer was not particularly powerful. The blows were not deep. Our killer was angry, in a rage, frantic. The blows were many. Our killer was in a state of panic, searching for the brain. There was probably premeditation, an incompetent premeditation. The hammer is not large. It is not the best weapon for someone planning a murder. And Sergei here almost certainly knew his killer.”
“How do you know?” Zelach said before he could stop himself.
Paulinin smiled. He welcomed the question.
“There are no defensive wounds on Sergei’s arms. Someone approached him, raised a hammer, probably one hidden behind his back, hit him twice in the face. Baklunov did not raise his arms, made no move to protect himself. After that he was in no condition to protect himself. He was killed by someone he knew, someone he did not expect to attack him. Someone he didn’t even turn to more than glance at. Someone he didn’t consider a physical threat.”
“What else did he tell you?” asked Karpo, standing with his hands clasped before him at waist level.
In the shadows of the bright light pointed downward, Karpo looked particularly ghostly to Zelach.
“A few whispers, a few whispers,” Paulinin whispered. “Our Sergei’s skull has an old scar beneath the hair, and his brain has a healed lesion where something, probably a tumor, has been removed, perhaps a decade ago or longer. Sergei is suggesting his killer was going after that very spot with the hammer, that very spot. I can’t be sure yet, but it appears to be the case.”
“Did he tell you why?” asked Karpo.
“Not yet, not yet. But if it is so, and I think it is, our murderer knew Bolskanov well, knew his skull hid a vulnerable secret. Would you like to know what he had for his final meal and approximately when he had it?”
“If you believe it is relevant information,” said Karpo.
“Interesting information but probably not relevant. I would tentatively conclude that Sergei was a vegetarian. You might ask some of his colleagues or his family. I am curious. It might or might not mean anything.”
“We will a
sk,” said Karpo.
“Well,” said Paulinin, looking at the open skull on his table. “In addition to the brain injury, he has had two broken ribs in his life, but they are not recent. I would conjecture that the ribs were broken about the same time he developed the tumor or whatever it was that was surgically removed from his brain. That is about all that is pathologically interesting. His killer left no blood of his or her own at the scene, as far as I can tell at this point. The hammer, however, is a bit more interesting. The murderer wiped the handle on Sergei’s laboratory coat. How do I know? Because there is a smudge of blood from the handle at the bottom of the coat where there is no splattering of blood from Sergei’s wounds. The killer either flung the hammer, holding on to the bloody head of the hammer to which clung bits of brain, into the corner, protecting it from prints with the coat, which would be very awkward and make it difficult to throw that far, or the killer let it fall to the floor. Most people would choose not to do that. In addition, the head of the hammer did not appear to have been handled. Skull and brain fragments, not to mention blood drops, seem reasonably intact.”
“Then what?” asked Zelach.
“The murderer,” said Paulinin, standing short but erect in the pose of a lecturer, “simply dropped the hammer and kicked it into the corner. A very close examination of the floor yielded very small scratches from the hammer as it slid along, leaving tiny fragments of brain, blood, and bone too far from the body to have been there as a result of the attack. So what do we learn from this?”
Zelach had no idea.
“The murderer may have stepped on these traces of blood, brain, and bone,” said Karpo. “The solution to your murder lies in a pair of tufli, ‘shoes.’”
“You are nearly perfect, Emil Karpo, very nearly perfect,” said Paulinin with delight. “Only Porfiry Petrovich himself approaches you. Our killer certainly washed or got rid of clothing, but being Russian and seeing no significant trace of anything on his shoe, he would, at most, merely have wiped it as a precaution. Maybe not even that. I prefer it if he did wipe it. The game is only good if there is a challenge.”
Fall of a Cosmonaut Page 4