There was a runway covered with weeds and hidden from most travelers that served as the graveyard of the flying dinosaurs of the former Soviet Union.
Prokofyev had offered to show the archaeological site to Rostnikov when next he flew, but the detective had chosen to leave the heap of rusting corpses and broken wings to his imagination.
There were many reasons beyond the decay of Aeroflot that caused Rostnikov’s general distrust of machines that flew. A primary factor was his concern that, on the slightest whim, the plane might grow weary, shed a wing, or decide that a small bolt that held the engine together should suddenly be spat out.
The behavior of animals was unpredictable within parameters that made Rostnikov comfortable. The behavior of machines, which could be predicted, struck him as no more to be counted on than the goodwill of a dancing bear. The purring of an engine and the purring of a cat were not signs of contentment but of potential irrationality.
These things had been on his mind when Rostnikov’s superior, Colonel Snitkonoy, known to all as the Gray Wolfhound, had seen him off at the airport.
They had spoken in the VIP lounge, a dark empty room with a bar that sold vodka and tasteless chips for hard currency. Elena Timofeyeva had sat in the vast, stale-smelling waiting room next to the VIP lounge as the Wolfhound had paced and gone over both Rostnikov’s assignment and the problems of the Special Investigation Office that were Rostnikov’s responsibility.
The Gray Wolfhound was a man designed to command respect. Always immaculately uniformed, with fair, well-cut features, blue eyes, and a mane of perfect white hair, the Wolfhound through wars, coups, and attempted coups had not only survived but prospered. Those in government and on Petrovka Street, however, had long considered the Wolfhound a joke whose function was to make glowing speeches and to escort middle-level foreign visitors on tours.
But the work of Porfiry Petrovich and his assistants, who had been demoted to the Wolfhound’s staff, had been given credit for preventing the assassination of the president. The Wolfhound had become a hero, and his ceremonial office, small though it was, was now being given increasingly delicate cases.
Some of these assignments came from those in the government who feared that the loyalty of more traditional departments could not be counted on in case of a sudden change in the government. Other difficult cases came from those who hoped that the man and his staff would fail and others loyal to the past would replace them.
“Delicacy,” the Wolfhound had said to Rostnikov, who sat in a particularly uncomfortable purple VIP chair looking up at the standing colonel. “The Cuban government does not wish to prosecute a Russian citizen for murder without the assurance that our government will not interfere.”
Rostnikov nodded dutifully, though the colonel had made this point at least four times in the past two days.
“Make no mistake”-the colonel pointed solemnly at Porfiry Petrovich-“the Cubans still rely upon our goodwill and we upon theirs. A time may come soon when our government will be in a position to resume meaningful trade with Cuba.”
Rostnikov nodded as Colonel Snitkonoy clasped both hands behind his back.
“In addition, there are members of the People’s Congress who have taken particular interest in this case. I have been told that there is concern that if it is not concluded with dispatch, certain radical elements, Pamyat, Stalinists, looking for a cause-in this case the conviction of a Russian citizen of murder in Cuba-will make an issue, demand his release, attack the government. And, I tell you this in confidence, there is concern that members of both the Congress and the KGB may be encouraging such a reaction. And so you are, as quickly as possible, to review the investigation of the Cuban police, confirm their findings, and return as quickly as possible.”
“What if he is innocent?” Rostnikov asked.
“That would greatly complicate the situation,” said the colonel. “But … you have seen the reports.”
Rostnikov nodded again.
“And?”
Rostnikov shrugged.
“Inspector Rostnikov,” the Wolfhound said with a weary sigh. “There are sensitivities here.”
“I will be sensitive to sensitivities,” said Rostnikov. “But …”
Colonel Snitkonoy shook his head.
“But what? Find what you will find, Inspector. Do what you must do. But it would be best if the man is guilty and the Cuban government has done an outstanding job of criminal investigation.”
“Let us hope then that this Russian citizen is guilty of murder,” said Rostnikov.
“I do not find irony engaging or instructional,” said the colonel, looking toward the door of the lounge. The bartender and a few passengers were being kept out of the lounge by two uniformed officers under the colonel’s orders.
“I will do my best to refrain from irony,” Rostnikov said. “And the Kazakhstani minister?”
“Deputy Inspector Karpo can do the paperwork,” the colonel said. “The man died of a heart attack. Unfortunately …”
“ … well timed,” said Rostnikov.
The Wolfhound remained silent for an impressive ten seconds before speaking slowly, earnestly, as he had spoken to the paper mill workers in Estonia before the collapse of the Union, as he had spoken to his troops in Czechoslovakia, as he had always spoken when sincerity had been called for to insure victory.
“Our nation is in jeopardy, Inspector Rostnikov. Our office is closely watched. If we are to serve our nation in this difficult period, we must strive for complete victory in our investigations.”
“An Englishman once said that those who most often achieve victory are those who are most convinced that they are right. …” said Rostnikov.
Before the colonel could finish his first wary nod of agreement, Rostnikov continued.
“… at the very moment when the only sane response is doubt.”
“I am enlightened,” said the Wolfhound wearily, “Enlightened.”
“I will do my job, Colonel,” said Rostnikov.
“I know,” said the Wolfhound. “But if you could do this one with a little less curiosity and zeal than you normally display, our future may be a bit more secure. Curiosity is not required in this situation.”
“I understand,” said Rostnikov.
“There is a long and twisted road between understanding and action, Porfiry Petrovich,” said the colonel. “Have I ever attempted to temper or thwart your investigations?”
“No,” Rostnikov admitted.
“Have I supported your findings and those of our staff when I have believed them?”
“Yes.”
“Have I not allowed our office, at your request, to assume responsibility for the investigation of the … how do they say it in America?”
“Serial killer,” Rostnikov said.
“Ah, yes, serial killer. Serial killer.” Colonel Snitkonoy tested the sound and seemed to find it acceptable. “The risk of failure is great.”
“But the rewards of success are many,” said Rostnikov.
“I grow weary of your epigrams, Porfiry Petrovich. You are reading too many American novels.”
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov.
“Then there is nothing more to say,” said the colonel.
And nothing more had been said. The colonel shook Rostnikov’s hand and departed, and Rostnikov painfully and slowly rose from the chair in which his crippled leg had gone stiff and rebellious with pain. The leg had been mangled by a Nazi tank in the battle of Rostov when Porfiry Petrovich was a boy soldier. A determined, half-crazed, and shell-shocked doctor had saved the leg, though any dermatologist or brain surgeon could have seen that the leg demanded amputation. And so, for more than thirty-five years, Rostnikov had dragged his left leg as if it were a ball and chain.
Now, cramped in a small seat of an Aeroflot plane on its way to Havana, Rostnikov put aside the American mystery novel he had been reading and tried once more to find a position that would not cause him extreme pain. He failed. He
glanced at his deputy inspector, Elena Timofeyeva, who had spent the first twelve hours of the flight to Cuba going over her Spanish language book, taking notes, and occasionally closing her eyes. The flight was only scheduled for twelve hours and ten minutes. There were still “several hours” to go till landing in Havana, according to the stewardess, who answered any questions-whether about arrival time, or about food, or drink, or the lack of paper in the toilet-with a depth of surliness usually encountered only in government food store clerks.
The flight had started badly. When Rostnikov had offered Elena the window seat, a one-minute struggle involving feminism, power, and confession had ensued.
“I will be quite comfortable on the aisle,” she had said as people squeezed past them down the narrow aisle.
“I prefer the aisle,” Rostnikov responded, pressing himself against the arm of the seat.
She gave him a look of grudging acceptance, suggesting that he was yet another man going through the motions of being polite and domineering.
“I would tell Emil Karpo the same thing,” Rostnikov said as she eased into her seat. “I prefer the aisle. I like to be able to move about.”
She had nodded, not believing him but recognizing the authority of the inspector who had given her the honor of going with him to Cuba. Her eyes met his and said, “This is to be a trip in which I am patronized. I can see it in our first exchange.”
Elena did not feel completely comfortable in her new position as the only female in the Special Investigation Office of the MVD. She wanted, and made it known that she wanted, no special treatment. She worked hard, put in extra hours, tried to cooperate with the men in the office even when they were wrong. She was rewarded by being ignored or patronized.
Elena was a pretty, slightly plump young woman of almost thirty-one. She had clear skin, blue eyes, and remarkably even large, white teeth. Her dark hair was straight, cut efficiently short. Though confident of her skills, she was aware that she had been given her position largely through the influence of her aunt, Anna, with whom she lived in Moscow. Anna Timofeyeva had been Deputy Procurator General for all of Moscow, and Rostnikov had been her principal investigator till Anna’s heart attack and forced retirement. Following a series of clashes with the KGB, Rostnikov had been transferred to the Office of Special Affairs, a dead-end ceremonial closet run by Colonel Snitkonoy.
Rostnikov and the investigators he had brought with him from the Procurator General’s office, Sasha Tkach and Emil Karpo, were then singled out by the KGB for several impossible investigations, investigations designed to embarrass the Wolfhound and his staff. But Rostnikov had managed to escape embarrassment in each of these investigations, and, when the Soviet Union and Gorbachev had collapsed, the Special Affairs Office, having no political power or identity, emerged as one of the few untainted investigative offices in Russia.
As he stood in the aisle of the Aeroflot plane observing his young aide, Porfiry Petrovich wondered if he had made the right choice in selecting Elena Timofeyeva to accompany him to Cuba. In fact, he had had no choice. Karpo could not be pulled from the serial murders and the death of the Kazakhstani minister. Tkach had made it clear that he did not want to leave Moscow. Besides, Elena could speak Spanish.
“Elena Timofeyeva,” Rostnikov said softly, letting his eyes meet those of the portly dark man in the row behind them who was paying unabashed attention, “I do not enjoy airplanes. I do not like to look out of windows and be reminded of space, time, and the frailties of human technology, particularly Soviet technology. I prefer to lose myself in books and sleep when it will come. I also like to wander the aisles to keep my leg from going stiff. It would be a favor to me if you take the window seat. Therefore, in this case, it is not I who would be doing you a favor but you who would be doing me one.”
With disbelief and reluctance, Elena consented, and Porfiry Petrovich sank gratefully into his too-narrow seat, wondering how he had become a policeman when in fact he had the heart of a priest.
But Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, named by his father for Dostoyevsky’s prosecutor in Crime and Punishment, knew he had been fated to be a policeman from the moment of his birth. Though his parents never urged him to pursue such a career, the literary designation represented a destiny that had been planted in his soul, something which Russians were now permitted once more to possess.
There were a few other Russians and an oasis or two of Ukrainians, Estonians, and Lithuanians on the flight. Rostnikov had checked the boarding list with airport security. All of the passengers looked reasonably uncomfortable. Only the Cubans, or those Rostnikov assumed were Cubans, seemed to take the long flight, terrible food, and metallic noises of impending doom in stride.
Rostnikov had brought four American paperback mysteries, two 87th Precinct novels by his favorite, Ed McBain, and one each by Donald Westlake and Susan Dunlap. He had never read a mystery by a woman, so he read the Dunlap first and enjoyed it. When he finished the Dunlap novel halfway through the flight of agony, he elected to read one of the McBains, a novel he had read before called Kiss.
It was then that they flew into turbulence that bounced the plane and made the wings rattle. Rostnikov put down his book and looked at the madmen and madwomen who surrounded him, seemingly unconcerned that they were flying over the dark ocean in a massive metal can operated by the airline with the worst safety record in the history of aviation.
He clutched his tattered paperback to his chest with hands of steel, felt the metal buckle of the seat dig into his stomach with each bounce, and thought of his wife.
Sarah, in spite of a few relapses, was recovering well from surgery almost a year ago. She was working again, at the music shop, and she seemed to have more energy than before. Porfiry Petrovich was sure the increased energy was a result of the two little girls. Ludmilla, ten, and Elmira, six, were the granddaughters of a woman who had been convicted of murdering the manager of State Store #31 during a spontaneous food riot. Rostnikov and Sarah had taken the girls in. Though quiet and frightened, Ludmilla and Elmira also seemed to be intelligent, and they wanted very much to please.
Rostnikov’s son, Iosef, now firmly established in Moscow after four years in the army, was working in the theater, talking about becoming a policeman, and visiting his parents’ apartment to help amuse his “little sisters.”
They, his family, were safe, if a bit hungry, in Moscow. But the tossing of the plane still made him uneasy, and he felt the need to talk.
“Elena,” he said. “You are working on your Spanish?”
She closed the book in front of her and turned to him.
“No,” she said. “I was going over the reports.”
“Share with me your endeavors,” said Rostnikov, folding his arms and trying to ignore a particularly sudden and violent drop of altitude that drew a gasp from someone at the rear of the plane.
“I am going over the copy of the file of Igor Shemenkov,” said Elena.
“You must have memorized it by now,” said Rostnikov.
“Some of it,” she confirmed.
“When I was a boy, before the war, we had to memorize Gorky and Lenin and Marx,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said Elena politely.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” said Rostnikov in a whisper. “Lenin and Marx were a mystery yet I remember long passages. Gorky was intriguing but I remember nothing of his work.”
Elena nodded.
“This strikes you as pointless conversation,” said Rostnikov. A man in a gray uniform hurried down the aisle toward the back of the plane either in frantic need of the rest room or to check on some new horrible sound that foretold the implosion of the airplane. “But I assure you it is not.”
“You are my superior and it is essential that I give you my full attention.”
“Your sense of responsibility gives me comfort, Elena.”
“I am pleased that it does.”
“When I think I am going to die in an airplane, I grow surly and sarcastic,”
said Rostnikov. “I was being sarcastic.”
“So was I,” Elena replied.
In spite of his concern about the worried man who had run down the aisle, Rostnikov smiled. Elena returned the smile.
“A test, Elena Timofeyeva,” said Rostnikov. “Are you ready?”
“A test?”
“We are being accompanied by a member of State Security,” he said.
“KGB,” she answered.
Inexperienced as she was, she did not look about the cabin at the mostly masculine faces. Instead she continued to look directly at Rostnikov.
“The new collegium is still dominated by the leftovers of the Communist party,” he explained. “They protect the apparatus of the KGB while giving its branches new names, new uniforms, new public faces. You know all this?”
“I know all this,” said Elena.
“The Office of Special Affairs is a small but irritating fleck in the single eye in the center of their collective forehead,” he said. “But since they have but one eye …”
“Cyclops,” she said. “Mythology.”
“They wish to remove us,” he said. The plane rocked madly.
“I understand,” she said. “My aunt has given me her views on this historical direction. May I say something, Inspector Rostnikov?”
Something had changed in her voice and Rostnikov gave her his full attention. She shifted in her seat to face him and seemed undecided for an instant. Then, with a small intake of air, she said, “I feel very awkward being on this assignment. I wish to do well. I will do well, but I feel too …”
“Formal?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But I don’t know, awkward, concerned that I will say the wrong thing. I do not want this awkwardness to interfere with my efficiency.”
“The KGB agent,” he said gently. “Which one?”
Still she did not look around the cabin.
“One of two,” she whispered. “The thin man on the aisle four rows back or the woman in front of us, the one who keeps trying to listen to us over the noise. She is doing her best to keep from showing her frustration.”
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