Death Of A Russian Priest

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  The boy got off the chair quickly and hurried to the door. He reached for the handle then turned back to the policeman. “You want me to come back with her?”

  “No,” said Rostnikov. “You can go to school.”

  “There is no school today. They closed the school because of my grandfather and Sister Nina. The streets are full of people from the city.”

  “Then play,” said Rostnikov.

  “My mother is very frightened,” said the boy.

  “I will be gentle.”

  “I’m going to the church,” the boy said, and went through the door and into the street.

  Rostnikov wanted to read more of the nun’s journal, but he had no time. The wife of Peotor Merhum must, indeed, have been standing directly outside the door, for she came in only seconds after her son had left.

  Sonia Merhum was not what Rostnikov had expected, but that did not disturb him, for he had learned long ago not to be caught short by his expectations.

  The woman was somewhere between thirty and forty years old, certainly older than her husband, but her beauty made it impossible to determine to which decade she was closer. She was tall, and her blond hair was cut short. Her body was full and firm, and she wore a plain dress of blue with white flowers printed upon it. As she approached, Rostnikov could see that her skin was perfectly smooth and unblemished and her mouth full and wide. Though the boy had spoken of his mother’s fear, Rostnikov could see none of it on her face as she moved to the chair across from him and sat like an uninvolved spectator at a trial.

  “Sonia Merhum, wife of Peotor Merhum?” he asked.

  The woman nodded.

  “Would you like some tea? I am afraid it is no longer really hot.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Her flat tone of voice indicated that she was trying not to express her feelings or, perhaps, trying not to accept them. Or perhaps the woman had been numbed by all that had happened.

  “You would like this to be quick,” he said.

  “Please,” said the woman.

  “I have only a few questions,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “And your son? “

  “Twelve.”

  “And your husband?”

  “Thirty. But why—?”

  “You have any other children?”

  “No,”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “Yes, one. Katrina, who lives in—”

  “Your husband?”

  “My—”

  “Does he have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Your husband and his father did not get along,” said Rostnikov.

  “Peotor did not kill him,” she said. “And Peotor loved Sister Nina. He would never hurt her.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I … I don’t know. He will be back. Perhaps he has gone away for the day. Sometimes he is like a child. This is … I think the news of Sister Nina may have been too much.”

  “So, you don’t think he has run away?”

  “No,” she said without conviction.

  “What did you think of your father-in-law?”

  “Father Merhum was a great man, a great social and spiritual leader,” she said as if she were reading from a script. “He will become a saint.”

  “And your son will become a priest like his grandfather and his great-grandfather?”

  “Never,” said Sonia Merhum, suddenly standing as she strained to keep her voice under control.

  “You are not a believer, I take it,” Rostnikov said.

  The woman said nothing. She turned her head to one side, and Rostnikov thought that she looked even more beautiful in profile. She reminded him of a cameo his mother had worn on a chain.

  “And Sister Nina, what did you think of her?”

  “Her faith was strong,” said Sonia Merhum softly.

  “Faith in … ?”

  “Father Merhum and the Lord,” she said, still not meeting his eyes.

  “And so you liked her?”

  “Everyone loved Sister Nina,” she said, so softly that he could barely hear her.

  “Perhaps not everyone,” he said. “She has been murdered.”

  Sonia Merhum gently bit her ample lower lip and nodded in agreement.

  “If—” he began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Vadim Petrov burst in, hurried across the room, and stood before Rostnikov. He looked down at Sonia Merhum, who did not look back at him. The farmer’s huge right hand held a cap that was crumpled into a ball.

  “People are exploding into town,” he said. “We can’t control it.”

  “People?” asked Rostnikov.

  “I don’t know. The curious, foreigners, another television crew in a truck from Moscow. Gonsk cannot handle it with the few volunteers we can get. I ask you to call for more police to keep order.”

  Rostnikov looked at the woman, and Petrov followed his eyes. She had pulled herself together, and her face was an emotionless mask.

  “I believe that we have a near-perfect ratio of police to crowd,” said Rostnikov, standing up to relieve the pain in his leg. “Too few police and you risk disorder. Too many and you risk reaction and even riot. I would rather err on the side of too little than too much.”

  “You wish to protect yourself,” said Petrov.

  “I wish to allow myself to profit from experience,” replied Rostnikov.

  “There is a madman in this town murdering priests and nuns,” said Petrov.

  “I don’t think any more priests or nuns will die,” said Rostnikov, tapping his hand on Sister Nina’s journal.

  “We don’t have many left,” said Petrov.

  “Those few you have are probably safe.”

  “You truly believe there will be no more killing?” Petrov challenged.

  “I believe,” said Rostnikov, “there will be no more killing of nuns and priests.”

  “The people of Arkush expect me to do something,” Petrov said. “Their priest is dead. The mayor needs support; he doesn’t give it. I am not capable of representing the state. I don’t know if I even have a function. The party is … I’m tired and I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I am a farmer. I was up at dawn trying to find wood to build a fence around my potatoes. People are starting to steal potatoes. I cannot deal with this madness.”

  “Madness,” Sonia Merhum suddenly said. “The policeman thinks that Peotor killed his father and Sister Nina.”

  The two men looked at her again.

  “No,” said Vadim Petrov, his broad face turning to Rostnikov. “He wouldn’t. He is not capable. You don’t know him.”

  “He could have been enraged,” said Rostnikov, pacing the floor slowly, coaxing his leg to life. “He could have lost control.”

  “He would never openly challenge his father,” said Sonia, and Rostnikov was certain that he heard more than a touch of bitterness in her voice.

  “He would never,” Petrov agreed.

  “Then,” said Rostnikov, “we had best find him and give him the opportunity to make that as evident to me as it is to both of you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some reports to read and a murderer to apprehend.”

  Rostnikov helped Sonia Merhum from her chair and guided her toward the door. Along the way he motioned for Petrov to join them. “Comrade Petrov will help you home,” he said, opening the door.

  Outside, a small crowd, perhaps twenty people, had gathered. Most of them pretended to be chatting by chance in the cold street. A few, and Rostnikov assumed they were the curious from Moscow and the foreigners, made no secret of their interest in the three people at the door.

  Petrov looked as if he were about to say something, but Rostnikov nodded at Sonia Merhum. Petrov gave in, took Sonia’s arm, and guided her down the street as Rostnikov closed the door.

  As he moved toward the room where Karpo had slept, Porfiry Petrovich considered the things he would have to do. First, he would have to find a phone and r
eport to the Gray Wolfhound. Second, he would try to find Elena Timofeyeva and Sasha Tkach to get a progress report on their search for the Syrian girl. Third, he would read Karpo’s report. Then he would settle down to Sister Nina’s journal.

  Rostnikov moved across the hall, stopped before Karpo’s room, and ran his fingers along the rim of the wooden door from top to bottom. Almost instantly he felt a piece of thread firmly caught in the closed door. When the door opened, the thread would fall. The person opening the door would not notice. But Karpo, when he returned, would feel for the thread and know that the room had been entered. Rostnikov was sure that there was at least one more thread or sliver of paper, but it did not matter. He was not trying to keep Karpo from knowing that he had entered the room. He was simply checking to be sure that Karpo, who was obviously deeply moved by the death of the nun, had not lost the professionalism that kept him balanced.

  Rostnikov entered the room and found the bed made and the reports piled neatly on top of it. He picked up the small pile, glanced at the evenly printed writing, and moved back into the large room. He decided that he would see if there was something to eat in the kitchen.

  He was fairly certain now of what had happened in Arkush. He hoped that Karpo’s reports, the nun’s journal, and information he soon expected to have would make him absolutely sure.

  THIRTEEN

  COLONEL SNITKONOY WAS IN the process of dictating a particularly important spontaneous speech to be delivered to a delegation of commonwealth drag enforcement officials who were going to France, England, and the United States in the hope of convincing those governments to send drug enforcement advisors.

  While the Gray Wolfhound, full of morning energy, paced the floor of his office Pankov hurriedly took notes. “World experts now believe all of humanity is on the edge of a new epidemic of drugs. Last year in the Soviet Union we destroyed more than one hundred thousand farms on which drug-bearing plants were being grown. No sooner do we tear them down than two of them spring up like a …”

  “Hydra,” Pankov offered.

  The colonel shook his head indulgently. “Too obvious. Like bamboo.”

  “Yes,” said Pankov enthusiastically as he wrote. “Bamboo.”

  “In Kazakhstan they triple. Afghan crude opium spreads through our open borders through Central Asia. And now there are those calling for the legalization of all narcotics. When the walls began to fall,” the colonel said, pushing against an invisible wall with well-formed, extended fingers, “chaos flooded in and now threatens to drown us all.”

  The phone rang. Pankov looked at the colonel, who said, “Answer it. And give me a list of facts about narcotics. Get it from … you know where to get it.”

  Pankov got up from the conference table and quickly left the room, closing the door behind him gently.

  “Special Investigations, office of the commander,” Pankov said, lowering his voice in the hope of approaching an official alto. “Yes … yes, sir.”

  He put the phone down gently, went back to the door, and knocked.

  “Come in,” called the colonel. The Wolfhound was pacing, his hair glistening in the morning light through the window.

  “Colonel Lunacharski of state security,” said Pankov.

  “Lunacharski?”

  “I believe he has replaced Major Zhenya in the Department of Internal Affairs. Zhenya who had an … an accident last—”

  “Put him through, Pankov,” said Colonel Snitkonoy with a wry smile that would have suggested to any but those who knew him well that he was fully prepared for this call. Pankov hurried to his desk and put the call through. He wanted to listen. He would have given his annual vacation to listen. Well, not all of his vacation, but certainly a day or two if the devil suddenly arrived with the offer, if there was a devil, which there certainly was not.

  Had he listened, he would have heard the following:

  LUNACHARSKI: Colonel Snitkonoy, I have some information which may be of value to you on two cases your office is investigating.

  WOLFHOUND: Good, Colonel, please forward it to me at once, or if you like, I will send someone—

  LUNACHARSKI: I would prefer it if you would receive the information yourself and not in writing.

  WOLFHOUND: Then, Colonel, please come to my office.

  LUNACHARSKI: That is very kind of you, but it would be impossible to meet in your office. I hope you understand.

  Colonel Snitkonoy understood very well. The former KGB officer had something to say that he did not wish to have recorded, and he assumed, quite correctly, that the Wolfhound would record the conversation, just as the Wolfhound assumed Lunacharski would have recorded the conversation in his office in Lubyanka. As it was, there was no assurance that both men would not record the conversation no matter where they met, but there were ways to make it more difficult.

  “The Seventh Heaven Restaurant on the TV Tower. We can have a light meal and I will be near my afternoon appointment,” said the Wolfhound. “If that is convenient for you.”

  The TV Tower in Ostankino was convenient to neither man, but the restaurant, over three hundred and twenty-eight meters high in the needlelike building, rotated once every forty minutes. It would be difficult to record the conversation by directional microphones.

  “Six-thirty,” confirmed Lunacharski.

  Colonel Snitkonoy hung up first. Then Lunacharski hung up the phone, rose, and moved to the window. He would have to arrive at the restaurant very early to be sure he would be seated so that the tall, lean figure of the Gray Wolfhound, a figure almost every Muscovite recognized from hundreds of pictures in the newspapers and on television, would not tower over him. Lunacharski would be required only to rise partially from his chair.

  It was the best he could do. The entire scene would take place in a location where the Wolfhound was comfortable. Major Lunacharski tried to think of a way to avoid this disadvantaged meeting, but there was none. He had decided on this direction and this direction it would be. He would allow himself to be humiliated, but he would gain control. Then he would sit back and monitor the results. The reports he would bring to General Karsnikov would mark the first step back toward respectability and possible promotion.

  And if this failed, he would simply have to try again and again until he succeeded in discrediting Snitkonoy and his staff.

  Lunacharski considered what to do with the remaining hours of the morning and afternoon. It was almost certain that at this hour his wife would not be home. She dreaded being home in the late morning. In addition, her lover was in town. Lunacharski would go home, get four hours of sleep, and then confront the Wolfhound.

  He checked the buttons on his suit, adjusted his tie, and examined his reflection in the small mirror he kept in his drawer. Vladimir Lunacharski was not vain, nor did he think himself particularly handsome, but he would not risk a tuft of wild hair or a misbuttoned shirt.

  “You should be home in bed,” Elena Timofeyeva said to Sasha Tkach, who sat at his desk opposite her on the sixth floor of Petrovka.

  Investigators, clerks, technicians glanced at him as they walked by. Sasha scowled them away until one man with a broad homely face and a satisfied smile leaned over and whispered something to him, then sauntered away laughing.

  “What did he say?” Elena asked.

  “He asked if you sat on my face last night,” said Sasha, and she could see from the small normal part of his face that Tkach was telling the truth.

  Then she told him again that he should be home in bed. He laughed.

  “You think I will get rest at home? My mother will rant and scold. My daughter will pounce when I dare close my one good eye, and my wife will be quietly sympathetic, so sympathetic, and that will be the worst of all.”

  He looked up at her with a challenge in his good eye and Elena laughed. She had not meant to laugh, but he looked so pathetic and his self-pity was so sincere that she could not help herself. She laughed and tried to hold the laugh down, but it came out in a spit and a spu
tter.

  Sasha tried to feel angry. Her laughter was the final blow. It proved that she was not suited to work with him, that he was right about his own misery. But instead of feeling angry he found himself smiling and then laughing, too, a laughter that hurt his ribs and stretched his swollen eye with stinging pain, but still he laughed.

  Zelach was still on leave. Both Karpo and Rostnikov were in Arkush. No one would see him, no one but Elena, and she had begun the laughter. It was safe and he laughed. There was no reason to laugh, but he laughed and watched her laugh.

  “I must stop,” he said. “It is too painful.”

  “All right,” said Elena, wiping her eyes. “All right. We will stop.”

  She did her best and it was almost good enough, but she couldn’t stop. Finally they sank back and caught their breath. It was at this point that for the third time she said, “You should be home in bed,”

  “I will feel less pain and feel less stupid about my actions last night if I work,” he said. “We will go gently.”

  “Gently,” she agreed, and knew that they had broken through to some understanding. It would not be perfect from this point on, but it would be better. “I have the names Tatyana gave us. Some have no last names and will be impossible to find, but a few are not so bad. I think I found the right Katrina Velikanova. The others, either she had the last names wrong, or …”

  “Or she lied,” said Tkach.

  “Or she lied,” agreed Elena. “But Katrina Velikanova is listed in the directory. Amira Durahaman was seen by Tatyana with Velikanova.”

  “Plus some young man named Stillsovik, an American named Paul Harbing—”

  “—who I cannot find—”

  “—and,” Sasha continued, “another Arab girl with an unpronounceable name and—”

  “It is a place to start.”

  “It is a place to start,” he agreed.

  And they started. They called Katrina Velikanova to be sure she would remain at home till they got there. She claimed that she could not wait, but Elena had made it clear that this was not a request.

  The ride took half an hour, and it was half an hour of pain for Tkach, who stood in a corner of the electric bus with his back half-turned to protect his taped ribs. The crowd was not bad at this hour.