Rostnikov’s Vacation

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Anton had brought the sandwiches to him and Misha Ivanov on the little rise outside the hotel where Rostnikov and Sarah ate when the weather permitted. Sarah had gone off with the American woman, while the woman’s husband remained in their room, saying he welcomed the chance to sleep late for a change. Rostnikov had gone to meet the pear-shaped KGB man, who came out in a heavy denim coat with an artificial fur collar and was definitely overdressed for the rapidly changing weather.

  Rostnikov’s morning had begun early with two phone calls, one from him to Moscow, the other to him from Moscow.

  The first call had come from Sasha Tkach, a rambling confession just before dawn that made little sense to Rostnikov, who had been summoned from his bed to the lobby phone.

  “Sasha,” Rostnikov had interrupted, “do you know Alice in Wonderland!”

  “Alice in … ? No,” Tkach answered.

  “You should read it,” said Rostnikov. “It is about the Soviet Union. At one point a crazed hat maker says what I am about to say to you: Begin at the beginning and when you come to the end, stop.”

  Rostnikov had pulled up a nearby chair, tucked in the unbuttoned shirt he had thrown on over his pants, and sat while Sasha told his tale. When he had finished, Rostnikov said, “Well?”

  “I am responsible for what happened to Zelach,” he said, unable to keep the anguish from his voice. “I was supposed to be in that apartment, not betraying my wife with a woman I don’t know, a woman whose smell I don’t like, a woman who—”

  “And what would you like to do?” asked Rostnikov, smelling something that might have been coffee brewing in the kitchen. It would probably be quite tasteless, but the odor triggered hope.

  “Do? I’m telling you,” said Sasha. “You must decide what to do with me.”

  “Ah, you wish to shift the responsibility to me,” said Rostnikov.

  “No,” said Tkach with some confusion. “I am accepting responsibility. It is your responsibility to judge and punish.”

  “What would you like me to do?” asked Rostnikov.

  “I don’t know. That’s not my—”

  “Shall I tell Colonel Snitkonoy? Demand a review, ask for your dismissal? Shall we call your wife, your mother? Will that make everyone happy? Will you feel better knowing you have made them feel worse? Or will you be relieved of responsibility? No, Sasha, I’m afraid you are going to have to decide what to do. I see nothing to be gained by anyone but you by punishing you. Zelach will not suddenly be cured. The thieves will not suddenly be caught and punished. You want advice? Go sit with Zelach. Call me as soon as you know how he is doing.”

  “I’m at the hospital,” said Sasha. “They say he will live, but he will probably lose the use of his eye.”

  “Which eye?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Which …what difference … ? The left,” said Sasha.

  “He will probably need glasses,” said Rostnikov. “I think he will look better in glasses, perhaps just a bit more intelligent.”

  “What shall I do?” asked Tkach.

  “You shall suffer,” said Rostnikov. “You’re Russian. You will suffer. But you will also find the thieves while you suffer. You know where to start?”

  “No,” said Tkach. “Wait. There’s an old woman coming down the hall. I think it must be Zelach’s mother. She looks like him. I’ve got to go.”

  “Go, and call me back before midnight or after eight tomorrow morning,” said Rostnikov. “I like to shave before I answer the phone. And Sasha …”

  “Yes.”

  “Survive.”

  As soon as he hung up the phone, Anton the waiter appeared with a cup of tea and a roll. Rostnikov stood to keep his leg from locking. He took the tea in one hand and the roll in the other.

  “It’s a scone,” said Anton proudly. “British.”

  Rostnikov bit it and took a sip of tea.

  “Tasty,” he said, though the roll tasted a bit as Rostnikov imagined crushed seashells might taste.

  With a smile of satisfaction, Anton hurried back to the kitchen, and Rostnikov made a call to Moscow. He asked the Petrovka operator to connect him to Emil Karpo’s phone. The operator informed him that Inspector Karpo was out but had left a number where he could receive messages. Rostnikov recognized the number. He hung up and called it. Mathilde Verson answered sleepily and with some irritation.

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  “Rostnikov. Have you ever eaten something called a British scone?”

  “No,” she said. Mathilde was also the closest thing, besides Rostnikov, Emil Karpo had to a friend. Karpo’s relationship to her had been going on for three years. At first they had met once a month. That increased to every other Wednesday and now was on an every-Thursday basis. Rostnikov knew that Karpo was required to pay Mathilde for each of their encounters. He also knew that the payment was the mortar that kept their growing relationship from a situation Karpo did not wish to handle.

  Although she was almost forty, Mathilde lived with her aunt and cousin on Herzon Street in an apartment that they vacated in the late afternoon or early evening so that Mathilde could pursue her profession.

  “Scones taste like crushed seashells,” Rostnikov told her, looking at the lump in his hand, “but perhaps I got a bad one.”

  “You woke me to tell me that?” she asked with amusement.

  Rostnikov imagined her sitting up in bed, her dark brown hair loose over her shoulders. Mathilde was not a pretty woman in the conventional sense, but she was tall, handsome, strong, confident, and Russian sturdy.

  “Karpo,” he said.

  “Give me your number. I know where to reach him. I’ll have him call you right back,” she said.

  Rostnikov sat watching the bleary-eyed early risers in the lobby as he finished his tea, tore crumbs off his scone, and popped them into his mouth. Emil Karpo was being very careful. Rostnikov knew that if anyone but he had called, Mathilde would have said that she would pass on the message, though she had no idea when she would be hearing from Karpo. Karpo did not want to be reached.

  “Call,” said the desk clerk across the lobby, and Rostnikov had picked up the phone.

  “Emil Karpo,” Rostnikov said even before Karpo spoke. “How is Moscow doing without me?”

  Although he was accustomed to Rostnikov, Karpo was frequently at a loss in replying to him. Humor was wasted on Karpo, though he recognized it. He recognized but had no idea of how to respond to it. When in doubt, he resorted to literalism.

  “Moscow proceeds,” he said. “Do you wish to speak?”

  Which, Rostnikov knew, meant, did he think this was a safe phone line, one that was not regularly monitored? There was no way of knowing. In fact, it was very likely that the hotel phone was monitored by the KGB. However, it was either no conversation, try to get back to Moscow, or risk the call. Rostnikov decided to take the chance.

  “Georgi Vasilievich is dead,” said Rostnikov. “He was murdered here yesterday in the morning. An attempt was made to make it look like natural death, a rather unprofessional attempt.”

  Karpo said nothing. Rostnikov had expected no response. He went on.

  “Misha Ivanov, you know him?”

  “KGB, recently transferred from Odessa,” said Karpo.

  “Emil, I doubt if any other member of the MVD in Moscow would know that,” said Rostnikov.

  “Perhaps,” said Karpo.

  “He is here, in Yalta,” said Rostnikov. “I am wondering how many other KGB, MVD, and GRU investigators are here. Perhaps we could gather for a convention, a dinner.”

  “You want me to make some inquiries?”

  “Do you have the time?”

  “I will make the time,” said Karpo. “I have been ordered to go on vacation by tomorrow morning.”

  “To Yalta?” asked Rostnikov.

  “No,” said Karpo. “Kiev.”

  “Tell me things, Emil Karpo. Tell me what is going on. Tell me what you are working on.”

  And Emil Karpo spoke. Co
ncisely, clearly, without interpretation, he told of Carla’s death, Yakov Krivonos, and Jerold.

  “Conclusions, Emil?” he asked.

  “You went on vacation when we were both working on the Bittermunder murder,” Karpo said. “Now, as I move close to finding his killer, I am ordered to go on vacation.”

  “You think someone in authority is protecting this killer with spiked hair?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Yes,” said Karpo.

  “It is possible,” Rostnikov agreed. “Perhaps it is a conspiracy of criminals. Investigators from all over are being sent on vacation to keep them from catching criminals?”

  “It does not make sense,” said Karpo.

  “Indeed it does not,” said Rostnikov. “Where are you?”

  “A phone near a club, the Billy Joel on Gorky Street. It is owned by a man named Yuri Blin with black market connections, drug connections. Carla Wasboniak came here. So did Yakov.”

  “A waiter told me last night that the name of Gorky Street has been changed.”

  “It is my understanding,” said Karpo.

  “Things are changing quickly. Move softly, Emil Karpo, so that these things do not come loose beneath your feet. Call me when you can.”

  “I will do so.”

  Rostnikov had hung up the phone. That had been more than two hours ago.

  Now Rostnikov watched as Ivanov ate wordlessly, with massive movements of jaw and sounds that would have offended even the patrons of all but the least savory cafés on what had been Gorky Street.

  Anton placed two glasses on the table, each containing a spoon. From the steaming gray pot that he carried in a towel he poured hot water, letting it run down the spoon to keep the water from cracking the glass. The two seated men watched solemnly and continued to eat while Anton put the pot down on the table and, with a flourish, produced a stainless-steel tea holder that he carefully dunked into the two glasses till the liquid in each glass turned a tepid brown.

  It wasn’t until Anton was safely out of earshot and heading back to the hotel with his cradled pot of water that Rostnikov spoke.

  “Are you a reading man, Ivanov?” he asked, reaching for the glass of tea.

  Ivanov spoke around the mouthful of sandwich. “I have a passion for English romantics,” he said. “And Gothics. Have you heard of Monk Lewis?”

  Ivanov’s eyes moved to Rostnikov, but the response was a disappointment.

  “No,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “Nightmares of the soul,” said Ivanov with a movement at the corners of his lips that might have been a smile.

  “I will attempt to find a book by Monk Lewis,” said Rostnikov.

  “I have one with me you can borrow,” said Ivanov. “It’s in English.”

  Rostnikov nodded. It did not surprise him that the KGB man knew he read English, nor did it surprise him when Ivanov went on.

  “And I will be happy to read one of your American detective romances if you would be kind enough to let me borrow one for a night. I read quickly and with abandon, though I should savor. It is a weakness in me.”

  A car passed below them on the road, and both men watched it till it was out of sight on its way to town. Then Rostnikov spoke.

  “There were many reasons the KGB might follow me.”

  Ivanov grunted and continued to eat. There was little left of his sandwich, which, apparently, he devoured with the same zeal he displayed with books.

  “But,” Rostnikov went on, “they are in the past. Do you like sports, Ivanov?”

  Misha Ivanov’s sandwich was gone. He brushed his mouth with his left hand and then folded both hands before him on the little table.

  “From time to time, particularly hockey, but they are not a passion.”

  “Do you know why you are watching me?” asked Rostnikov.

  “To observe and report,” Ivanov said, finding a crumb on the table, picking it up and popping it into his mouth. “Though I would expect to be relieved today. This is not proper behavior for the two of us.”

  “And yet … ?” Rostnikov urged gently.

  “What is it the Americans say? Fuck-shit?” asked Ivanov, now convinced that there were no more crumbs to conquer and sitting back in the chair. “Do you know why I am following you?”

  “No,” said Porfiry Petrovich. He rolled his glass of rapidly cooling tea between the palms of his thick hands.

  “It makes little sense,” said Ivanov, unfolding his hands and looking around as if something or someone might suddenly appear and explain the situation to him. “An agent here could have done the job. Between us, we are tripping over each other. One minute I’m arranging security for a visiting delegation from Moscow, and the next minute I’m … ”

  Misha Ivanov looked around and went on. “I do not like the sea air, Rostnikov. I do not see why a ranking officer should be sent a thousand miles to do what any field agent could do. I think glasnost is driving men mad.”

  “Don’t you think it a bit dangerous to be saying this to me, Ivanov?” asked Rostnikov, beginning to sense the finest hairs in the tail of an idea.

  Misha Ivanov laughed, but there was no mirth in the laughter.

  “Even within the KGB there is a new openness,” he said, leaning forward and speaking in a whisper that was louder than his voice. “So, do you have an idea?”

  “What if,” Rostnikov responded, “you were not sent here to watch me?”

  “But I was,” said Ivanov.

  “Perhaps,” replied Rostnikov, and for an instant Misha Ivanov considered that he might have been sent to watch a man who was quite possibly going mad.

  “And what has this to do with what you said last night? Georgi Vasilievich’s death?”

  “Murder,” Rostnikov amended.

  “Murder, then,” said Ivanov.

  Rostnikov stood. His leg had not only begun the slight electrical tingling that warned him of pain but had gone just a bit beyond. He rose, hoping that he could coax it back to life, make peace with it. He had almost lost himself in pursuit of the tail of that idea.

  Ivanov looked up at the barrel of a detective who walked in a small circle.

  “There were three of us here,” said Rostnikov.

  “Three?” echoed Ivanov.

  “You, me, Georgi,” he said softly. “I wonder if there are more.”

  Ivanov rose. This was making little sense.

  “I’m going to my room to pack,” said Ivanov. “Whether I am being watched or not, I will have to report our encounter last night and this morning.”

  “What do you know of plumbing, Ivanov?”

  “Little, less than I know of human nature. Is there a point to your question, Rostnikov?”

  “Plumbing is very simple,” said Rostnikov. “I have made a study of it. Plumbing always makes sense, is completely logical, and there is a great sense of satisfaction in contributing to its completion. Results are immediate. Function follows form, and there is an end. If it has been done properly …”

  “… water flows through the pipes,” said Ivanov. “I’m fascinated by this discussion of sewage, Rostnikov.”

  Anton was heading back toward them now with a tray.

  Ivanov was torn between waiting to see what food might be on the way and wanting to get away from Rostnikov, about whom he had heard much and in whom he was mightily disappointed.

  “You will not be recalled,” Rostnikov said. “You will be told to remain here and engage me.”

  “We shall see,” said Ivanov.

  Anton had brought a plate of biscuits. Misha Ivanov scooped up a handful and moved away.

  “Thank you, Anton,” Rostnikov said, reaching over to take a biscuit.

  “You have a call from Moscow,” Anton said after he had placed the now nearly empty plate on the table. “An Inspector Karpo.”

  On the way to the phone in the lobby Rostnikov saw the huge man he had seen the day before. The man sat alone, taking up two spaces on an uncomfortable-looking sofa with spindly legs. A newspap
er lay open in his lap. Rostnikov wondered where the little man with the glass eye was. For some reason, his absence made Rostnikov uneasy.

  SEVEN

  SASHA HATED THE SMELL of hospital corridors. He had spent many hours, whole nights, in such corridors waiting for victims and violators to survive and speak or to die. He remembered the night when his father had lain dying in a hospital that smelled like this one while he waited all night with his mother.

  The waiting wasn’t bad. The sound of people in pain was not pleasant, but it was tolerable. What he couldn’t stand was the smell and its memories. He always wondered why others did not seem to have the same reaction to the strong, sweet-acrid odor he could actually taste, like shaved metal in his mouth.

  But this time Sasha Tkach welcomed the smell, for it overwhelmed the scent of Tamara on his clothes. He was pleased that the smell of the hospital would not be easy for him. Rostnikov had said he would suffer, and suffer within he would, and he also needed something physical to punish his senses as he sat talking to Zelach’s mother.

  They sat on a bench in the corridor, a long wooden bench that had been painted pink, probably under the misconception that it would add a touch of color to the grayness. It did not.

  Sasha had tried to call Maya. He wanted to see her and Pulcharia, but he was afraid that his clothes, his look, would betray the awful thing he had done and she would be unable to forgive him. Maya had not answered the phone. With each ring he had hoped she would not answer. She had already gone to work. After twenty rings, he had hung up, deeply disappointed that she had not been there, his heart beating wildly. And then he had called Rostnikov. Zelach’s mother said something. Sasha apologized and asked her to repeat it.

  “He will not die?” Zelach’s mother asked for the eleventh time in the past hour.

  She was a great lump of a woman, and Sasha could see her son in her.

  “He will not die,” Sasha reassured her once again, though he had no idea whether Zelach would survive.

  “He is my only child,” she said softly. “Have I told you that?”