Rostnikov loved circuses. He had taken Iosef many times when Iosef was a boy. He had already taken the two little girls twice. And Sarah, Sarah loved the beautiful, sad clowns and the graceful aerialists. Perhaps he could get tickets after this meeting and take Sarah, the girls, and their grandmother. Perhaps he would invite Iosef. Maybe he could even talk Karpo into coming.
Yes, perhaps, and perhaps a circus fairy would leap from the pages of a Lermontov book and give him the money to pay for such an outing.
He wanted to call Sarah, but there was no way of doing so now. He would simply go home after this meeting and discuss the surgery.
Cashierovsky, a small, pudgy man with very little hair and a wheeze of asthma abetted by the growing pollution of the city, moved as quickly as he could to serve his guests.
“Looks good,” said Rostnikov. “Emil?”
“It looks very good.”
“Tomatoes were a treat when I was a boy,” said Rostnikov, picking up his sandwich.
Cashierovsky stood waiting.
“Delicious,” said Rostnikov, chewing on the bite of sandwich he had taken.
Karpo bit into his roll. “Very satisfying,” he said.
“Peto,” Rostnikov said, “some men will be here in about ten minutes. Two men, I hope. Would you leave the door unlocked and stand near it in case others wish to ignore the ‘closed’ sign?”
“Of course,” said Cashierovsky, already moving back behind the counter.
“You remember my friend Cashierovsky?” asked Rostnikov, savoring his sandwich and mineral water.
“Yes,” said Karpo, slowly eating his roll and sipping his tea. “Three students from Moscow University beat him, his wife, and his sons, because they are Jewish. They broke his windows and told him to move.”
“What a memory,” said Rostnikov, genuinely impressed, since the incident had happened almost a decade earlier when Rostnikov was still chief inspector in the Office of the Procurator General. Karpo had not helped with that case. Rostnikov had quickly found the three students and given them the choice of court and certain prison, or dropping out of school and going their separate ways outside of Moscow, after turning over a sum sufficient for Cashierovsky to repair his restaurant. He had also warned them that they would be watched for the rest of their lives, that they were now in the central computer.
The trio had left within a day.
Had they remained, Rostnikov was certain the insane justice system would have been sympathetic to them and probably let them go with a mild warning and a token fine that would not even repair one window they had broken. As for keeping their names in a central computer, it was little better than a joke. Rostnikov wondered what university students were being taught if they did not know the system was nearly useless. The only ones at the time who had decent monitoring systems were the KGB, and they would have no interest in cluttering the memories of their computers with such matters.
But that was long ago. Times had changed. The bureaucracy was different. Things were worse.
Chenko, the one-eyed Tatar, was the first to arrive. The young man who had met Rostnikov before his first encounter with Chenko came out of a car illegally parked at the curb. The windows of the car were tinted. The young man looked both ways and around the street. Then he looked through the window, saw Rostnikov, and returned to open the back door of the parked car. A moment later Chenko came out of the car and quickly entered the door of the restaurant, which the young man helped open for him.
The man stood outside the door, his back to the restaurant, and Chenko moved forward to the table.
“What is this?” said the Tatar.
“A tomato sandwich,” said Rostnikov.
“I don’t like jokes,” said Chenko, cocking his head from side to side to look at the two men.
“Neither does my associate,” Rostnikov said, nodding at Karpo. “Please sit.”
“If this is a trap,” Chenko said, “my men have been ordered to kill both of you very painfully and then to do the same to all the members of your families till your line is erased.”
“That,” said Rostnikov, “is very colorful. The Godfather, something like that. I believe you, Casmir Chenko. Your problem is that if we were to be killed, our friends would destroy your families. We could start a regular old-style feud with our descendants killing each other, forgetting eventually why they were doing so. This is not a trap. Please sit.”
The gnarled, one-eyed man sat at the table with his back to the side wall. He was between the two policemen.
“Mineral water? Something to eat?”
“Nothing,” said Chenko. “I will remain here for five minutes, no longer.”
At this point, Cashierovsky appeared with a large, round metal tray covered with small plates of food—ukha, fish soup; meat boiled in kvass and served with kasha. He placed the plates and forks out for the men, and, after putting the empty tray on the counter, the shopkeeper moved to stand next to the front door of his establishment, as Rostnikov had asked him.
Rostnikov’s eyes moved to the door as did Chenko’s single eye. Karpo did not turn. He finished the last piece of his roll and served himself a plate of kasha. Rostnikov ate with one hand, the other in his lap within easy reach of the weapon under his jacket.
Chenko started to rise. “I will not talk to him,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” said Rostnikov. “I would like you to simply listen to me. Sit, please.”
Rostnikov knew that Chenko’s gesture had been for show. In his call asking the Tatar to meet here, he had been clear that Shatalov would also be present.
Outside the door Shatalov posted his own man, who stood facing Chenko’s young man. There was certainly a carful of Chechins close by.
Shatalov moved to the table. His smile was gone. He did not look at Chenko. “There is no point to this,” said Shatalov. “It is too late for talk. I agreed to a truce and he … that smirking Tatar murdered one of my best men.”
“You are here, sit,” said Rostnikov. “Casmir Chenko did not murder your man as you had not murdered his man.”
“I …”
“You will please sit,” said Rostnikov loudly, bringing a fist down on the table that made the two men outside the restaurant and Peto Cashierovsky start nervously.
Shatalov sat and motioned to his man outside that everything was calm. Chenko did the same.
“I now know you have a temper, policeman,” said Shatalov, “and terrible taste in clothes.”
“My anger comes unbidden. As for the clothes, I had an accident,” said Rostnikov.
“Others can be arranged,” said Shatalov, looking at Chenko for the first time.
“Easily,” said Chenko.
“One-eyed, wattle-necked rooster,” said Shatalov, whose white hair looked even whiter than it had the day before.
“Irving,” said Chenko.
“Do you want to know who killed your men and why, or do you want to simply leave here ignorant and continue the war that is costing you lives and rubles?” asked Rostnikov.
“Why do you care?” asked Chenko.
“Innocent people will die,” said Rostnikov. “I don’t care about you or your men. Innocent people have already died because of you.”
Rostnikov picked up the newspaper article which he had placed facedown on the table. He handed it first to Chenko, who cocked his head to one side to read it with his good eye. When Chenko was finished, he handed it back to Rostnikov, who handed it to Shatalov, who read it quickly and returned it to the policeman.
“The name of the boy who died when your men had a street fight, a fight over an insult, not even over territory, a fight … the name means nothing to you, either of you? The underlined name?”
“Nothing,” said Chenko.
“Nothing,” said Shatalov.
“Emil, tell them the name of the killer of their men.”
Karpo did as he was told.
“I don’t know this person,” said Shatalov.
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p; “I don’t either,” said Chenko.
“Yes, you do,” said Rostnikov. “I will tell you and convince you, and you will stop your war before it begins. I have no illusions. At some time, you will start killing each other again, and though it may make no difference to either of you, if one more innocent person dies, I will see to it that you are both brought to justice. This I promise you and myself.”
“Talk,” said Shatalov, looking at his watch. “I told my men I would be in here no more than ten minutes.”
“I told my men five minutes,” said Chenko. “And those minutes are almost up.”
And so Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov pushed his plate away and explained. They listened. There was not much to tell. When he was done, Chenko rose immediately.
“You are both convinced?” asked Rostnikov.
Neither man spoke. Both nodded that they were convinced.
“There is a condition to my telling you this truth,” Rostnikov went on, pulling the plate of food back so he could reach it. “You are not to seek out or harm the one who did this.”
“That cannot be,” said Chenko.
“It cannot,” said Shatalov.
“An eye for an eye. Five gangsters for one child,” said Rostnikov, his hand still in his lap. “I want your word.”
“You will accept our word?” asked Shatalov.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“No more killings?” said Shatalov, looking at Chenko.
“Not from the person I have just named,” said Rostnikov.
“You have my word,” said Chenko.
“You have mine,” said Shatalov.
“I arrived first,” said Chenko. “I leave first.”
Shatalov opened his mouth to speak, but Rostnikov stopped him. “Go,” Porfiry Petrovich said, and the one-eyed man left.
When he had entered the car with tinted windows, followed by the young man he had posted at the door, Rostnikov nodded at Shatalov that he could leave. The white-haired gangster rose and departed. Rostnikov eased his weapon into the pocket of the ugly slacks of Leon’s dead father-in-law.
When Shatalov was no longer visible outside the door, Rostnikov said thank you to Peto, who took down the “closed” sign, hurried to the table, and asked no questions about what had just happened in his restaurant, though he was pulsing with curiosity.
“Another tomato sandwich?” asked Cashierovsky.
“Why not? Another roll and tea for you, Emil Karpo?”
Karpo shook his head.
“I’ll wrap the food you didn’t eat to take home,” said the restaurant owner.
“That would be very nice,” said Rostnikov.
The pudgy restaurant owner hurried off to make another sandwich for Rostnikov.
“Were you genuinely angry when you struck the table, Porfiry Petrovich?” asked Karpo. “It was very unlike you, but most effective.”
“I was genuinely angry, Emil,” said Rostnikov. “I have a family crisis. Elena Timofeyeva has been injured and I am wearing a jacket and pants that would befit a clown across the street. I have a bad feeling. I was angry, but perhaps not as angry as I appeared.”
A bag containing the uneaten food and a second tomato sandwich appeared in front of Rostnikov. On the plate next to it was a firm peach.
“You remembered,” said Rostnikov.
“I remembered your love of peaches,” Cashierovsky said. “Enjoy.”
“He’s back,” Ivan Pleshkov said to Iosef over the phone.
“Does your father know you are calling me?” asked Iosef, sitting at the desk in his cubicle. He had been about to go out the door and head for the home and office of Leon the doctor. Porfiry Petrovich had left a message for his son telling him where Elena was, that she had been injured but that she was fine.
Iosef had wanted to see for himself, to be with her, but the phone had rung and Yevgeny Pleshkov’s son was on the line.
“Is he planning to leave?”
“I don’t think so,” said the son. “He looks tired. He looks like cat vomit.”
“Has he said anything to you or your mother about where he has been, what he has done?”
“He doesn’t have to,” said Ivan. “He’s been whoring, drinking, gambling, behaving like a fool. The great potential leader of the people is a buffoon, but what is new about that?”
“Can you keep him there?” asked Iosef.
“I can’t keep him anywhere,” said Ivan. “He goes where he wishes, does what he pleases, helps the masses and abuses individuals. But from the look of him he is at least content to be home for the immediate future. My mother has asked no questions. She will, though, and he will give her stupid lies. She will pretend to believe them. It is over. He is back till next time. Good-bye.”
Ivan hung up the phone and so did Iosef.
The proper thing to do at this point was to tell everything to the chief inspector, his father, but Porfiry Petrovich was out somewhere with Karpo and it was possible that Yevgeny Pleshkov might run off again. He either had to act on his own or talk to Director Yaklovev, which he preferred not to do. But he had little choice.
Instead of calling, he walked to the director’s office and asked if the Yak was in. The dwarfish Pankov began to sweat almost immediately. He had been given a specific list by Director Yaklovev. Except in an emergency, no one else was to be admitted to his office. Porfiry Petrovich was on the list. No other member of the Office of Special Investigation was.
“Is this an emergency?” asked Pankov, looking at the director’s office door.
“It is,” said Iosef. “And we are wasting time.”
“What is the emergency?”
“Something for the ears of the director only.”
“I can ask him,” Pankov almost pleaded. “But I must have some idea …”
“Tell him it is about Yevgeny Pleshkov,” said Iosef. “Tell him it is urgent. Tell him …”
The director’s door opened and Yaklovev, spire-straight, said, “Come in, Rostnikov.”
Oh, by my mother’s saints, thought Pankov, he can hear everything that is said out here. He has wired my space.
This was terrifying news to the little man, who now searched his memory, frantically wondering, fearing, that he had said something in the last months, something that would eventually mean his ruin.
I should have known, Pankov thought. I should have suspected. Oh, god. He doesn’t care if I know. He is planning to replace me, to drive me into a breakdown and replace me.
The door closed behind the two men.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov had many things on his mind when he returned to his office. He wanted the day to be over so he could talk to and be with Sarah. He wanted to bring in the killer of the Chechins and Tatars. He wanted quite a few things, but he did not want to find Lydia Tkach sitting in front of his desk with her arms folded when he returned from his meeting with Shatalov and Chenko.
He sat behind his desk, put his hands flat in front of him, and looked at the thin woman attentively. That she was furious was obvious. Sasha’s mother did not hide her opinions or feelings. And her primary feelings were reserved for her only son.
“Elena Timofeyeva was attacked by a wild tiger,” she said.
“A tiger?” asked Rostnikov. “Contrary to rumors you may have heard, I can assure you, Lydia, that there are no packs of wild tigers roaming the streets of Moscow. There are animals far more dangerous, but not tigers. It was a dog.”
“Anna Timofeyeva said it was a tiger.”
Rostnikov seriously doubted this, since Lydia was shouting and not wearing her hearing aid. Actually, she almost never wore the hearing aid, which made conversation with her very public.
“A dog,” said Rostnikov.
“Then a dog,” Lydia conceded with exasperation. “Anna Timofeyeva says she will probably die.”
“Elena Timofeyeva is probably home by now,” said Rostnikov, trying hard to keep from looking at his watch. “She has some injuries but she is fine.”
“We shall see,” said Lydia with suspicion. “She was working with my Sasha, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then he may be attacked by some animal, may be killed,” she said, challenging the chief inspector.
Sasha was certainly in danger from animals with guns, but a second dog attack was unlikely.
“I think he is in relatively little danger,” Rostnikov said, reaching under the desk to try to adjust his leg through the trousers of Leon’s dead father-in-law.
“Relatively?” Lydia shouted. “Relatively? There shouldn’t be any relatively for Sasha. There should be no danger.”
“He is a police officer,” said Rostnikov patiently. “There is always some danger when one is a police officer.”
“Not if one sits behind a desk,” Lydia said, leaning forward with a cunning smile.
“He does not want to sit behind a desk. I don’t know if I could get him moved behind a desk even if he wanted to. We have had this conversation many times, Lydia Tkach.”
“And we will have it many more times till you do something to protect my Sasha.”
There was a knock at the door of his office. Rostnikov called, “Come in.”
Pankov entered with a very false smile and a steaming mug.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you might like some tea.”
“That would be nice,” said Rostnikov.
“Can I bring some for the lady?” Pankov asked, placing the tea before Rostnikov.
“What?” said Lydia, looking at the little man as if he was an intrusive insect.
“Tea,” Rostnikov said loudly.
“No.”
“This is Sasha Tkach’s mother. This is Pankov, the director’s secretary,” said Rostnikov.
The tea was hot and sweet, a strong tea. It was clear that Pankov wanted something. This was the first time the little man had been in his office, and Porfiry Petrovich was confident that Pankov had never been in the room across the hall with its cubicles for the other inspectors.
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