Death Of A Russian Priest
Page 21
“Zah vahsheh‘zdahrov‘yeh.”
Iosef, rising with some difficulty, held up his glass and said, “To Elena Timofeyeva, a welcome addition to our group.”
Karen, a capable actress worthy of a major role in a play about women, smiled, held up her glass, and was the first to say to the embarrassed Elena, “Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh.”
And as they were about to drink, Pulcharia let out a squeal, toddled across the room, and threw herself at Emil Karpo, who reached down to pick her up. Everyone stopped drinking and looked at the vampire and the small child. Pulcharia looked at Karpo’s drawn face, touched his cheek gently, and put her head against his shoulder.
“It’s getting late,” said Anna Timofeyeva. “I need my rest and we have two buses to take.”
The party broke up quickly then. Everyone asked for coats and Rostnikov motioned for Iosef to help him. Father and son went into the bedroom while the others continued to talk.
“Karen’s a very pretty girl,” said Rostnikov.
“Very pretty,” said Iosef.
“She is also talented,” said Rostnikov.
“Very talented,” Iosef said. “But you do not understand. The policewoman Elena—I think I love her.”
Rostnikov and his son, arms full of coats, paused near the door of the bedroom and looked at each other. “It’s possible,” said Rostnikov. “But you are just a bit drunk.”
“It is true,” said Iosef. “I am a bit drunk. But you shall see.”
They carried the coats back into the living room.
Anna and Elena left first, followed by Iosef and Karen, whose dancing brown eyes, knowing smile, and unsteady legs made it quite clear that she was drunk.
“I’ll take her,” said Lydia, reaching out to Karpo for the sleeping Pulcharia as Sasha and Maya moved to the door, supporting each other.
“I will carry her downstairs for you,” said Karpo. The child’s hair brushed his pallid cheek, and his face was more relaxed than Rostnikov had ever seen it. “Mathilde and I must also leave. “
Mathilde looked at Rostnikov and smiled.
“All right,” said Lydia. “But be careful.”
“I will be very careful,” said Karpo, following Lydia Tkach through the door.
“Thank you,” said Mathilde, taking Sarah’s hand.
“There will be other times,” said Sarah.
Rostnikov paused for a moment as Sarah closed the door. Then he moved to the table and began to clear away dirty dishes. “Enough left for two meals,” he said.
“Maybe three,” she said.
“I can clean up,” he said.
“I feel fine, Porfiry, Why don’t we do the dishes in the morning. We have both had too much to drink.”
It was only a little after midnight when they climbed into bed. It was slightly before one in the morning when Rostnikov heard the knock at the door.
Sarah was sound asleep, snoring gently. He got out of bed as quickly as his leg would permit, put on his ancient blue terry-cloth robe. As he was closing the bedroom door behind him, there was another knock.
This had happened to Rostnikov many times. A murder, a missing child, a terrorist threat. The uniformed driver would be apologetic, would tell what little he knew, and wait patiently while Rostnikov dressed. He unlocked the door and opened it. Instead of a uniformed driver, there were two men. One he did not recognize. The other was Klamkin the Frog, who held a very compact but quite effective 9mm Walther.
“I could shoot you now and walk away,” said Klamkin, pushing open the door.
“But you will not,” Porfiry Petrovich answered. “Or you would have done so immediately.”
The man behind Klamkin was large and young with short sandy hair. He wore a sneer that indicated he knew something you didn’t. In this case he apparently did.
Both visitors were wearing heavy coats but no hats. “We can do our business in the hall,” Rostnikov said as Klamkin motioned him into the room with the Walther.
“Your wife is sleeping,” said Klamkin. “We know. We will be very quiet and we won’t be long. She has been ill and we wouldn’t want her to have a relapse.”
Rostnikov moved slowly back into the room and the young man closed the door. Rostnikov knew that most people in situations like this tried to get as far from the weapon as they could, as if the bullet could not travel just as swiftly across a room. But Rostnikov wanted to be as close to Klamkin as possible, close enough so that if he decided to shoot, Rostnikov would have at least a chance at disarming him.
“We can come back and shoot you tomorrow or the next night or some morning when the sun is shining and the ruble is beginning to mean something again,” said Klamkin.
Rostnikov didn’t speak.
“The officer for whom I work wishes to make you an offer,” said Klamkin.
“I’m listening.”
The big man glanced around the room. He was, Rostnikov concluded, new at this kind of work.
“You will provide me with information about your own investigations and others in your department.”
“And why should I do this?” asked Rostnikov.
Klamkin did something to his face that made his large lips curl upward. “My superior thinks you might be afraid to die,” he said. “He feels you might be afraid we would hurt your wife or your son.”
“If my wife or son were harmed,” said Rostnikov, “I would kill you and Colonel Lunacharski.”
The big man laughed at the absurdity of the threat by the old cripple.
“The help we get now,” Klamkin said apologetically to Rostnikov. “We are losing people with training and replacing them with oafs like this who do not know what you could do to him if I allowed him to get too close to you.”
“The world is changing,” Rostnikov admitted.
“We are of the past, Porfiry Petrovich, you and I,” said Klamkin. “Please move back.”
Rostnikov moved back a step.
“I had not the slightest expectation that the threat would work,” said Klamkin. “But the reward may have a better chance. One year of helping us, and we will get you, your wife, and your son out of Russia—to Italy, America, France, wherever, with money. Conditions in Moscow will grow worse before they grow better. Your wife wants to go and she is still not completely recovered. Who knows how many months or years …”
“I’ll consider it,” said Rostnikov.
“None of your colleagues will be harmed,” Klamkin continued. “No criminals will go free. If you wish, your protégés will keep their positions when Colonel Lunacharski takes over. Even the Wolfhound will not suffer. He’ll simply be retired. Only you will know.”
“The price is too high,” said Rostnikov.
Klamkin shook his head and turned to the big man at his side. “Wait outside,” he ordered.
The big man did not respond immediately. Klamkin turned his large head toward the man without taking his eyes from Rostnikov and repeated, “Wait outside.”
This time the big man left. Klamkin closed the door behind him. “I’m supposed to shoot you if I think you will not accept the colonel’s offer,” said Klamkin. “We have a scapegoat, a man with a criminal record for breaking into homes. You just met him.”
Rostnikov nodded.
“Our department will track him down tomorrow and he will die in an effort to escape. We will be given full credit for the swift action in finding the murderer of a highly respected Moscow police officer.”
“You are not going to shoot.”
“I am not going to shoot you, Porfiry Petrovich, but neither am I putting my gun away. I’ll go back and tell the colonel that you are considering his offer, that you need time. Meanwhile, Porfiry Petrovich, either reconsider or protect yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.
“Just between us, Porfiry Petrovich,” whispered Klamkin, “I like you and I do not like Lunacharski, but …”
“Survival,” said Rostnikov.
“Survival,” agreed Kl
amkin. As he reached to open the door his Walther was still trained on Rostnikov.
When Klamkin was gone, Rostnikov locked the door. It wasn’t a bad door. He had reinforced it himself, but he knew that no door, not even one of steel, could withstand the technology that the KGB had developed.
In the morning he would decide what to do. The world had changed, but in many ways it had not changed at all. For the world to change truly, people had to change, and that was too much to expect.
When he climbed carefully back into bed, Sarah stirred and stopped snoring. “Were you talking to someone, Porfiry?” she asked sleepily.
“It was the television,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Sleep now,” she said, reaching out for him. “You need your sleep.”
He thought of Galina Panishkoya, seated on that stool, the barrel of a pistol pointed at the head of a frightened shopgirl. He thought about the woman’s grandchildren. “Sarah,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“There are two little girls who may need someplace to stay.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe we can take them in for a little while.”
“Maybe. We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she said.
He took Sarah gently in his arms as he had at some point each night for almost forty years. He lay on his back, and she rested her head on his right arm and curled up against him. She liked his warmth and purred gently. He liked the coolness of her feet and fingertips.
Then it came to him. Clear and complete. He remembered the apartment he had lived in when he was a child, remembered the sofa with the wooden legs and the spring that hit his back if he moved to the left, remembered the chairs, the windows, the table, the radio with the chip of plastic missing in the front near the dials, remembered even the pattern on the worn-out rug his grandfather had given them and his shoe box filled with lead soldiers. And he remembered quite vividly the faces of his father and mother.
He remembered, and a moment later Rostnikov was asleep.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen