“Assassination,” said the colonel, tapping the book against his thigh.
“That is what Vasilievich believed.”
“And what you believe?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“I am on this list,” said the colonel.
Rostnikov said nothing.
The colonel nodded his head knowingly, placed the notebook down carefully, and reached for one of the cups of coffee. Conflicting feelings surged through the Wolfhound, not the least of which was a certain pride at being considered important enough to be included on the list of people who might be worth assassinating. Fear was not one of the feelings, for, in truth, Colonel Snitkonoy was a very brave man.
“What do you propose, Inspector?”
“I have reason to believe that the assassination in Moscow is to be carried out by a young man named Yakov Krivonos, the man I was in the process of locating when I was sent on vacation.”
“And the man Inspector Karpo continued to search for until I ordered him on vacation,” continued the colonel. “A vacation ordered by directive.”
“Inspectors Karpo and Tkach are in pursuit of Krivonos and a man named Jerold, who may be behind the planned attempt,” said Rostnikov. “May I have more coffee?”
“Help yourself,” said the colonel.
“Inspector Karpo has until tonight at midnight, according to your order, before he must go on vacation,” said Rostnikov.
“If we can reach Inspector Karpo, inform him that the order is no longer in effect,” said the colonel. “You have a suggestion, Inspector?”
“One that may be dangerous, Colonel.”
“Proceed.”
“A call from you to the appropriate heads of departments in the KGB, MVD, and GRU indicating that you have evidence of such an assassination plot and advising them to be alert. You might also tell them about the notebook and suggest that copies have been made and are safe.”
“One or more of the people I contact may well be part of the conspiracy, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“Let us hope so, Colonel. Let us hope they realize that they must stop the assassination attempts or risk exposure. If nothing happens, then Vasilievich’s notebook is the conjecture of an old man who coincidentally was murdered. If even one assassination takes place, the conspirators will be pursued. They had hoped, perhaps, to make it look like the work of a group of young drug dealers and criminals acting from a grievance against the state. We must disabuse them of the possibility of such a public interpretation.”
“I will make the calls immediately. I can also attempt to have the celebration in Soviet Square postponed.”
“There is less than an hour,” said Rostnikov, rising from his chair. ‘“Will they listen?”
“No,” said the Wolfhound. “They will not. And if I am not on the stand with the other officials and an assassination attempt does take place, I will be an immediate suspect. I must make these calls quickly, Inspector, and I must do them in plenty of time to get to Soviet Square.”
It was not the first time that Rostnikov had felt a sincere admiration for the colonel, and he hoped it would not be the last.
“We must hope that Inspectors Karpo and Tkach locate the assassin,” the Wolfhound said, reaching for the phone.
As he leaned forward, his leg brushed his waiting cup of coffee. A splash of dark brown hit his immaculately clean trousers. The colonel paid no attention.
Gorky Street was cordoned off for the celebration. Even if Karpo and Tkach had identified themselves as policemen, they could have gotten no closer because of the crowds. Karpo pulled to the curb in front of the Moscow News Office and across from Pushkin Square. They got out and battled through the crowds onto Gorky Street, making their way past the All-Russia Theatrical Society, the Nikolai Ostrovsky Museum, and Food Store Number One. In front of the Tsentralnaya Hotel they crossed the street to the sidewalk before the Druzhba Bookshop.
Yakov’s mother had told them where to find her son, and Karpo had considered several possibilities. One possibility was to call Petrovka, to tell the duty officer to get to the Moscow Soviet, but there would be a great risk in that. That there was a conspiracy was evident from even his cryptic conversations with Inspector Rostnikov over the last two days. There was no telling who would receive his call or how it might be treated.
No, there had been ample time for him and Tkach to get to Gorky Street, and though it had taken longer than they anticipated, they were here now, making their way through the crowds. Tkach was markedly improved but not to be fully trusted. Had he an alternative, Karpo would have sent Tkach back to Petrovka, but there was no time for alternatives.
Tkach looked across the broad street at the raised platform on which minor officials were already gathering in spite of the thunder and almost certain rain. The threat of rain had not deterred the crowd, which hoped the occasion would be one of protests and spectacle.
Karpo led the way into the building and to the guards.
“Two men,” he said, showing his identification card, though both of the guards had recognized him. “One young, wearing glasses, the other about my age, bearded, probably quite pale.”
The guard had no idea what Karpo’s age might be, but he shook his head and said, “Hundreds of people have come in and out this morning, all of them with proper identification.”
The second guard, however, said, “The one with the flu.”
“Yes, perhaps,” said the first guard. “He had a beard, but—”
“Where is he?” asked Karpo.
Both guards shrugged.
“I think,” said the second guard, “he went up those steps.”
Karpo and Tkach hurried past the guards and moved up the stairs two or three at a time.
It took them almost a minute to make their way to the fourth floor, past officials in the halls hurrying for raincoats and umbrellas in their offices or scurrying down the stairs to be outside, where they could be seen when the celebration speeches began. It took them another few minutes to find the door on the fourth floor with the stairway behind it: They entered and in the darkness moved up slowly, cautiously, Karpo in the lead, weapons drawn.
When he reached the door, Karpo stopped and reached back to halt Tkach. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he began to turn the handle, hoping that the growing crowd on the street and the sound of voices inside the room would cover whatever noise he might make. Before he could push the door open, two shots screamed like wounded jackals inside the room.
The rain had begun almost as soon as Karpo and Tkach had entered the Moscow Soviet building. The rain had started to fall, and the umbrellas had begun to open on the street as the major officials began arriving with their own umbrellas. The platform was not covered. No one had anticipated the weather. It should not have rained today. But it was raining, and Yakov Krivonos was propped at his window, ready to fire.
The problem was “Almost all of them on the platform are wearing raincoats, and some of them have umbrellas. I can’t see most of their faces. How am I supposed to know who to shoot?”
Jerold forced himself out of the chair and moved to the window. “The first three on the left, near the flag, see them?”
“Yes.”
“You will shoot them. And two over. The one with the boots. See him? The one who just climbed up?”
“I see his boots,” said Yakov.
“Shoot him, too,” said Jerold, wearily moving back to the chair.
“Hell with this,” Yakov decided as he moved the rifle to the window, lay on the ground, and propped the weapon up on the inverted metal V that served as a bipod to steady the already steady weapon. “The longer we wait, the harder the rain will be and the more the targets will protect themselves and be harder to find.”
Yakov Krivonos nestled the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, pressed his face against the cheek rest, and moved his left hand to the pistol grip and his right hand to the wooden piece in front of the trigger. The weapon was compact, the barrel cla
mped at the front and rear to ensure the torque initiated by a bullet passing through the bore would not lift the barrel away from the intended point of aim. The barrel was as long as that on almost any sniper weapon, but it ran the full length of the rifle, almost to the end of the short, comfortable butt. The Walther RA 2000 was gas operated, easy to handle, with the ejection port close to the person firing. Thus, there were both right-handed and left-handed versions so that the port would be on the side opposite the sniper. It was accurate within three inches at a thousand yards.
“What are you thinking, Yakov?” Jerold asked, his voice dropping, near exhaustion.
Yakov’s solution was simple. He would shoot everyone on the platform. There were twelve men and two women. Jerold hadn’t told him whom not to shoot. He had simply identified those who were to die. A few extras wouldn’t matter, and Yakov didn’t want the American to try to get out of his promises of wealth and women. He raised his rifle. He would simply shoot them all.
“Yakov, you will shoot only those …”
Yakov heard him but did not wish to, and so he told himself a lie. He told himself he had begun to fire before Jerold spoke. He fired the first shot, and the second came almost immediately after.
Before the echo of the second shot had wept its last tear of pain through the stairwell, Karpo pushed the door open and stepped into the room, gun level, ready to fire. He knew where the window would be, must be. If both of the men they sought were in the room, he would go for the one near the window, the one who must be preparing to shoot down another Soviet official in the square.
Karpo came very close to squeezing the trigger before he realized that the person leaning forward against the window with a rifle in his hands was half-turned and looking straight up at the ceiling, blood streaming out of his mouth. As Tkach scrambled up the stairs and joined him, Karpo swung around to the far corner and found Jerold, his hands raised high over his head.
“My gun is on the floor, over there,” said Jerold, nodding with his head toward the weapon, about five feet in front of him on the floor.
“Sasha,” Karpo said, and Tkach leveled his gun at Jerold while Karpo moved to the window to look down. There seemed to be confusion on the platform, and people were looking up at him through the rain, but he could see people scrambling in confusion. One person had fallen.
“He was about to shoot President Gorbachev,” said Jerold. “May I put my hands down? I’m feeling quite weak.”
“No,” said Sasha, and Jerold could see that as much as his arms ached and his knees threatened to quit beneath him, it would be best to remain exactly as he was.
Karpo quickly examined the dead Yakov Krivonos and turned to Jerold.
“My pocket,” Jerold said. “Rear. Take out my wallet. I’m a KGB officer.”
Karpo moved toward him quickly. The room would soon be filled with armed soldiers from the street, soldiers who would have to be stopped before they entered the room and began firing.
“Sasha,” Karpo said. “Go down the stairs. Tell them who you are, that everything is all right.”
Tkach put his gun away, looking at the dead young man near the window, and felt a sudden chill through the open window as he moved through the door.
“My name is Alexandrov,” said Jerold, his American accent suddenly gone. “I was trying to locate and identify all of the members of an extended extortion and drug gang. Yakov was my link. He thought I was an American drug dealer.”
Karpo turned the pale man around and removed the wallet from his back pocket. He found the secret compartment and removed the KGB identity card with Jerold’s photograph.
“It is authentic,” said Jerold.
Below them they could both hear boots hurrying upward through the building.
“I am sure it is,” said Karpo.
“You almost killed me this morning, Inspector Karpo,” he said, putting his hands down and sinking into the chair.
“And you almost killed me,” said Karpo.
“Had to make it look good for Yakov. I am sorry.”
Karpo nodded.
“You understand?” Jerold went on as they heard Tkach’s voice below, though his words were unclear.
“Not completely,” said Karpo.
“But you believe me?” said Jerold, looking up, his shirt drenched with sweat.
“No,” said Karpo.
“It would be best for you to believe me, Inspector Karpo,” Jerold said. “I’m about to make us heroes.”
With that, a major, his brown uniform dark and heavy with rain, his cap pulled down, came rushing into the room. His gun was drawn but at his side, indicating that Sasha had been reasonably convincing.
“Major,” Jerold said, “I am Lieutenant Vasili Alexandrov, KGB Security Division. The man at the window is Yakov Krivonos. He was about to kill President Gorbachev. Inspector Karpo arrived just as I prevented him from doing so.”
The major looked at the two men, trying to decide which one was more pale. The scene was unnatural, a moment frozen from some half-remembered play, and the major, who had witnessed many deaths in Afghanistan, felt a cold chill and knew this moment would haunt him till he died.
THIRTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, THE sun shone on Moscow.
Shortly before nine, under that shining sun, tourists from both within the Soviet Union and beyond its formerly formidable borders boarded the excursion boats at the Kiev pier. There weren’t many sightseers this early in the morning. Among those boarding, however, though not together, were a tall, quite pale man whom everyone avoided as best they could and a block of a man with a limp who was ignored by the people scrambling ahead of him to get the best seats.
Porfiry Petrovich did not want the best seat, and Emil Karpo did not care. Before the ship had pulled away from the pier, Rostnikov was seated along the port rail in a chair with its view partly obstructed by a thick metal pole. Almost all the other passengers were in front of the ship with their guidebooks out. Rostnikov was very much alone when Karpo joined him as they pulled away from the pier and the ship began its journey.
“Have you ever taken this ride before, Emil Karpo?”
“I have not.”
“Over there,” said Rostnikov, pointing to the bank. “The fortress walls of the old Novo-Devichy Convent. See the belfry?”
“I see it,” said Karpo.
“In the convent cathedral, Boris Godunov was proclaimed czar in 1597,” said Rostnikov.
“It was 1598,” Karpo corrected.
Rostnikov smiled.
“You knew that,” said Karpo, looking at him.
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov, still looking at the bank. “The wife and sister of Peter the Great were imprisoned in the convent for plotting against Peter. Many famous people are buried inside those walls. I know you know this, Emil Karpo, but it gives me some small pleasure to say it aloud, so please indulge me while we wait. Sarah and I made this trip with Iosef when he was a boy.”
Karpo looked at his colleague and saw a weariness he had never seen before.
“You are ill,” he said.
“I am tired,” Porfiry Petrovich corrected.
“What is it that we are waiting for?” asked Karpo.
“An answer,” said Rostnikov.
The ship passed the sports complex of Luzhniki, and over the cabin of the boat Karpo could see the Lenin Hills coming down to the edge of the water and, high on top, against the skyline, the massive main building of Moscow University, its tower lost for the moment in a low cloud.
“Beautiful,” said Rostnikov with a sigh.
Karpo said nothing as they went under the double-level bridge.
“Yes,” said Karpo, though the mystery of beauty had either eluded him or, as he thought more likely, existed only as a bourgeois fantasy.
Karpo was aware of the man approaching them well before he turned to face him. The man was in his mid-forties, thin, balding, and dark, dressed in a blue suit with a matching striped tie.
�
�Colonel Zhenya,” Rostnikov said, looking up and shielding his eyes against the sun with his hand in what might have been taken for a mock salute.
The KGB colonel was known to both Karpo and Rostnikov. He stood erect and played with a ring on his right hand as he spoke.
“I do not believe I have ever seen you out of uniform before,” Rostnikov said.
Zhenya looked at Karpo and then at Rostnikov without moving his head.
“My presence doesn’t surprise you, does it, Rostnikov?” he said.
“I am completely surprised,” said Rostnikov with what might well be taken for surprise.
“You are tired from your flight, and you have not slept for almost two days,” said Zhenya. “That, I assume, is why you are engaging in pallid irony.”
“You are certainly right, Colonel,” Rostnikov said, shifting his leg as he remembered why it was that he had not taken this river ride or any other for many years. The dampness cramped his leg in wet, relentless fingers.
“You were well aware that your conversations were monitored and that someone listening, someone who knew your background, would probably understand your little code,” said Zhenya.
“I was counting on it, Colonel,” said Rostnikov. “There, see, you are right. I should never say anything like that to a KGB colonel, especially to you.”
“At least,” said Zhenya, “you would not have done so before the dismantling of the Soviet Union, which is now under way.”
“I should not do so now,” said Rostnikov. “But I am tired.”
Emil Karpo stood silently, listening.
Zhenya looked at him and said, “Congratulations, Inspector Karpo,” he said. “I understand you are a hero. You participated in thwarting the assassination of our president. Only a minor official of no consequence was wounded.”
There was no irony to be detected in the colonel’s words.
“Thank you,” said Karpo.
“And you, Rostnikov, you are a hero, too, a silent hero, a hero behind the scenes,” Zhenya said, suddenly abandoning the ring he had been playing with and moving to the rail. “You prevented a conspiracy to end the leaders of the reform. You should be very proud of yourself.”
Rostnikov’s Vacation Page 18