“No one else hurt?” asked Rostnikov.
Two men came out of the ambulance. They were dressed in white and wore the businesslike look of those who touch death daily. They moved around Rostnikov and Karpo, knelt at each body to be sure that all signs of life had departed.
Shatalov’s face showed silent, final pain, and blood dripped from the hole directly over his right eye. Both eyes were open. One could mistakenly think the look of pain was a smile. One of the other corpses was curled in a fetal ball, trying to protect himself. The third dead man had been very young. He lay on his back with his arms spread as if taking in the sun on the beach at Yalta. This third dead man bore a striking resemblance to Shatalov.
“His son,” said Karpo, watching Porfiry Petrovich as he looked down at the young dead man being checked by one of the medics.
“Witnesses?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, smelling an aroma of bakery coming from inside the New Market. It smelled remarkably good and he considered going in to find out, after he was finished in the street.
“Raisa Munyakinova has succeeded,” said Rostnikov. “The war has begun. You are, however, not displeased, Emil Karpo.”
“Murder is a crime against the state,” said Karpo.
“And the victims,” added Porfiry Petrovich. “But you are not displeased at the prospect of the Mafias dwindling their numbers.”
“You know that to be the case, Chief Inspector,” said Karpo, taking notes. “However, it will not diminish my commitment to finding whoever did this.”
“And we have a good idea of who that might be,” said Rostnikov. “Witnesses?”
“Two,” said Karpo. “A boy and an old man. Do you wish to talk to them?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Inside. Bring them. Follow that smell. Don’t bother to call Paulinin on this one. He will consider it beneath his talents. A simple gangster assassination. There is little challenge. Call the pathology office.”
Karpo closed his notebook and nodded. As Porfiry Petrovich entered the market, Karpo motioned to a slightly overweight police officer whose cap was so tight it had turned his forehead pink.
“You remain here,” Karpo said. “No one touches the bodies or approaches but the ambulance men and forensics.”
The man with the pink forehead nodded and stood at near attention over Shatalov’s corpse.
“Can we take them now?” asked the older of the two medics.
“Wait for forensics,” said Karpo.
“They take forever,” said the driver with a look of disgust. “People are dying every ten minutes in Moscow. We run, eat bread and cheese while we drive, and it gets worse. Can we go and come back?”
“No,” said Karpo.
The medic was about to protest, but he looked at Emil Karpo and tried not to shudder at the intensity of his stare.
“We’ll wait,” said the driver. “Maybe a little break won’t hurt us. But if we get in trouble, we will say that you ordered us to remain here.”
Karpo turned his back on the medics.
The two witnesses were standing apart from the small crowd. The boy was very thin and no more than twelve. The man was almost as thin and certainly no younger than eighty. It was a puzzle to Karpo that in a country where the life expectancy was sixty years, the streets were filled with men and women in their seventies and eighties.
The market was reasonably busy in spite of the crowd outside. Karpo, the boy, and the man walked slowly past sights and smells of food. The strongest smell came from the busy fish stalls, where the fish were generally big and probably beginning to turn.
Karpo followed the sweet smell of baking that could not be suppressed by the other odors. He found Rostnikov sitting on a low wooden fence behind a pastry stall, a brown paper wrapping open on his lap before him and four triangular baked objects the size of an adult hand laid out on the paper. The low wooden fence appeared to be in serious danger of collapse under the chief inspector’s weight.
“Take one,” said Rostnikov, looking at the witnesses.
The old man took the gift eagerly. The boy took another, but cautiously. He knew there was always a price to pay. The old man knew too but was beyond caring.
“I can’t offer you a seat,” said Rostnikov, selecting one of the last two triangles, “but I will try to be brief. Inspector Karpo, I bought one for you.”
“No, thank you, Chief Inspector,” Karpo said.
Rostnikov wrapped the final triangle and put it in his pocket. “Now, gentlemen, are you related?”
The boy and old man shook their heads.
“These are good, aren’t they?” Rostnikov said after his first bite.
“Yes,” said the boy.
The old man nodded in agreement. Both the witnesses now had dots of white sugar and flakes of light-brown crust on their faces.
“I think they are Armenian,” said Rostnikov seriously, examining the pastry that was no longer a triangle.
“Armenian?” said the old man. “No, I am Russian.”
“I mean the pastry,” said Rostnikov.
“Oh, Armenian, yes,” said the old man, taking a bite and tearing the pastry with his few remaining teeth.
The boy’s clothes were clean but shabby. The old man’s baggy pants and oversize sweater were clearly flea-market items. Both man and boy had eager looks on their faces, anticipation tinged with caution. This was a high point in each of their lives.
Rostnikov knew he should interview them individually, but there was little chance, almost no chance that either of them would ever appear in court as witnesses in a Mafia shooting regardless of what they might have seen. The courage of the old man would fade quickly if it became known that he could identify anyone. And Rostnikov knew better than to even consider putting the boy before a judge. It would be an assurance of the boy’s death. But Rostnikov could, possibly, use information they might give him.
“What did you see?” asked Rostnikov, taking another bite. He could taste honey, yoghurt, sugar beneath the flaky brown crust.
The old man spoke first. It was hard to understand him because his mouth was full of pastry. “I was going to get food for my dog,” the old man said. “Do not go near him if you should meet. He has grown old and sometimes bites strangers.”
“I will avoid him,” Rostnikov assured the old man. “I doubt if he could provide any information that might help in this case.”
“I was going to get food for my dog,” the old man continued. “Three men got out of a car. They started to walk to the market. Another car came. The windows were open. Shooting, shooting, shooting. Glass breaking. Stones from the market wall exploding like in a movie. Then the car that the three men had come out of chased after the car the shooting had come from.”
“You see any of the men in the car with the shooters?” asked Rostnikov.
“No, too fast.”
“Can you tell us anything about the car?”
“Big, black, maybe American, maybe German, not Russian.”
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“I have to get home to my dog with some food. His name is Gagarin. I was almost a cosmonaut. I was a pilot in the real war, killed many Germans, many Germans.”
Rostnikov did not doubt it. Neither did he believe. Anyone the age of this man had no choice but to fight against the Germans. Rostnikov, as a very young boy, had been a soldier. It was in the process of destroying a German tank that Rostnikov had suffered the wound that eventually led to the loss of his left leg.
“Give your name and address to Inspector Karpo. We will come to you if we need to talk to you again.”
“You think my dog would eat some of this sweet?”
“It is worth the attempt,” said Rostnikov.
“My dog bites. If you come to see me, be careful.”
“I was bitten by a dog yesterday,” said Rostnikov.
“You were?” said the old man. “Are you all right?”
“He bit my plastic leg,” said Rostnikov.
; “That was fortunate,” said the old man, moving to Karpo, who took several steps back.
“And what did you see?” Rostnikov asked the boy.
“You really have a plastic leg?”
Rostnikov reached down and pulled up his pant leg to reveal his prosthetic leg. The boy examined it, taking another bite of pastry. He nodded to indicate that he had seen enough of the leg.
“And a dog really bit you?”
Rostnikov smiled and lifted his pant leg again and pointed to the teeth marks in the plastic.
The boy nodded again.
“What did you see?” Rostnikov repeated.
“The men in the black car fired many times, like the old one said. It looked like the men who were shot were dancing to the music of the guns.”
“You are a poet,” said Rostnikov, smiling at the boy, who nodded.
“No money, poets don’t make money,” said the boy. “I want to be a policeman like you. Policemen make lots of money.”
“We do?”
“Bribes, payoffs, everyone knows,” said the boy.
There was enough truth in the statement that Rostnikov ignored the boy’s observation and said, “How close were you when the shooting began?”
“I was right next to the three men who died.”
“You are lucky to be alive,” said Rostnikov.
The boy shrugged and finished off the pastry, licking the residue of sweetness from his fingers.
“I wasn’t afraid,” said the boy.
“Sometimes it is good to be afraid. It makes you careful.”
The boy shrugged again.
“What else did you see?”
“The man in the front seat, the passenger seat. When the car slowed down to kill the three men, both the back and front windows came down. The man in the backseat fired. The old man in the front seat watched.”
“What did these men look like?”
“The shooter wasn’t young. The old man had one of those black things over one eye.”
“A patch?”
“If that’s what you call it.”
Casmir Chenko.
“Why aren’t you in school?” asked Rostnikov.
“I don’t like school. I go sometimes. But I don’t like school.”
“If you want to be a policeman, you have to go to school,” said Rostnikov. “If you go to school, come and see me when you are twenty years old. I’ll probably be retired, but I’ll do what I can for you.”
“Who are you?” the boy asked suspiciously.
“Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov of the Office of Special Investigation. Are you impressed?”
“Are you going to want me to sign a statement, point to the old man with the patch in a courtroom, something?” the boy said, not answering the question.
“I don’t think so,” said Rostnikov. “I would like to see you reach the age of twenty so you can become a policeman. Here.”
Rostnikov shifted his weight, pulled out a crumpled card from his wallet, and handed it to the boy. The printing job was crude but it told the story, Rostnikov’s name and title, the name of the Office of Special Investigation, and the phone number and address of Petrovka. “Now go give your name and address to Inspector Karpo.”
“Is he dying?” asked the boy. “The other policeman?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “His aspect is a combination of heredity, a lack of humor, tragedy, and careful, if unconscious, cultivation.”
The boy understood nothing of the explanation.
Rostnikov had little hope that the boy would become a diligent scholar and appear on his doorstep sometime in the future with the crumpled card in his hand. But if one never tried, one never succeeded. He checked his watch. He was late. He was too late to take the metro and he had no car.
Getting up was a monumental chore, but he managed without slipping. Rostnikov thought he was getting more friendly with his new leg with each day. This was a leg that reminded him of Karpo: solid, emotionless, efficient, and reliable. The withered real leg that was now gone had been more of a Sasha Tkach leg, feeling put upon, emotional, needing help more than helping.
That was an unfair thought. Sasha was a good policeman, a troubled young man but a good policeman.
When the two witnesses were gone, Emil Karpo approached Rostnikov, who was walking out of the market past the stalls.
“I will meet you back at Petrovka,” said Rostnikov. “I want Casmir Chenko in my office in two hours. You know how to find him. If he is in hiding, locate him. Get whatever help you need from Opatchoy in MVD Uniform Division. He owes me a favor. Be careful. Take whatever men you need.”
“He will be in your office,” Karpo said.
Back on the street, with the sun making a futile effort to come out from behind very black clouds, Rostnikov took one last look at the corpses and moved down the street in search of a cab. In less than a block, he had found one, even though they were not very close to the tourist hotels. Cabs were plentiful in Moscow.
This one sported a dour driver with the weatherworn, pinkish face of an alcoholic, a face very familiar in Moscow.
Rostnikov climbed in awkwardly, closed the door, and told the driver where he wanted to go. “I am a police inspector,” Rostnikov said as the man shifted into second. “You will charge a fair amount or I will declare this vehicle commandeered for police business, in which case you will be paid nothing. You understand?”
The driver nodded.
“Are you married?” asked Rostnikov.
The driver nodded.
“Children?”
“Two,” said the driver in the most gravelly voice Rostnikov had ever heard. It was even more rough than that of his sergeant when Rostnikov was a boy soldier.
The driver waited for more questions. None came.
Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the hospital.
“What do I owe?” asked Rostnikov.
“Whatever you want to pay,” said the driver.
“I want to pay nothing,” said Rostnikov. “But you deserve payment for your work.” Rostnikov gave the man more than the trip would normally cost.
“Thanks,” said the driver.
“May your family be healthy,” said Rostnikov.
“May my family stop complaining,” said the driver.
Rostnikov got out of the cab and began the short walk to the door of the small hospital. Sarah’s surgery was one hour away.
Chapter Thirteen
IOSEF STOOD BEFORE THE DESK of Director Yaklovev, doing his best to hide his anger. It took all of the skills he had learned in the theater. He should have discussed this with his father before he came to see the director, but he was fairly certain what Porfiry Petrovich would have advised.
Iosef didn’t want common sense and he didn’t want caution. He wanted to express his ire even if it cost him his job. Since he preferred not to lose his job and he hoped for some satisfaction, Iosef decided to play the role of an unflappable diplomat, unsurprised by events, only slightly disappointed by the actions of his superior. It was what he decided, but Iosef was certain that his indignation would overcome him. There really was nothing to gain here and much to lose.
Yaklovev sat behind his desk, looking at the transcript of the confession of Oleg Kisolev and the statements of Yulia Yalutshkin and Yevgeny Pleshkov. It was Iosef’s copy, the copy Pankov had handed to the young inspector less than fifteen minutes earlier.
“Yes, I have heard the tape,” said the Yak. “I have read the transcript.”
“And?” asked Iosef.
“Too many typing errors, but I will edit them and Pankov will produce another version,” said the Yak.
“This,” said Iosef, pointing at the transcription, “is not what happened. Oleg Kisolev has no money. The German wouldn’t get anything by trying to blackmail him. And how would he know that Kisolev was homosexual? If Oleg told Yulia to take Pleshkov away from the hotel after he killed the German, there is no chance she would do it. She wo
uld never be ordered about by Oleg Kisolev or anyone else. You saw that. And Kisolev is incapable of participating in such a sequence of events—killing the German, trying to destroy the body, ordering Pleshkov to leave the scene. In this version, Pleshkov and the woman did nothing, and Kisolev acted in self-defense and to protect his friend. And none of this is what they told me and Zelach. It is a different story.”
“Are you finished?” asked the Yak calmly.
“I don’t know,” Iosef said.
“You are finished,” said the Yak. “And if you pursue this case any further, your career will be finished before it begins. You are a very good investigator. You could be, with time, as good as your father, possibly a chief inspector. I have great respect for Porfiry Petrovich’s discretion and ability. He could not be pleased if I were forced to dismiss you from Special Investigation. Pause now and think. Think and discuss this with your father.”
Suddenly, Iosef understood. It should have been clear and would have come to him had he not been enraged and stormed into the Yak’s office. Yaklovev had not been taken in by a flimsy story. The director of Special Investigation had made a deal, had gambled on the possibility of Pleshkov being in an even greater position of power in Russia. The Yak had given the politician freedom from jail in exchange for future considerations relating to the Yak’s ambition.
“I believe the statements,” said the Yak. “I suggest you do the same. The German could well have spied on Kisolev and discovered that he was a homosexual. The German could have assumed that Kisolev could borrow money from his friend Pleshkov. And our soccer coach, in a state of panic, showed an aggressive side of his nature that is normally hidden. His very future and present were at stake. The case is closed. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Iosef, holding out his hand.
The Yak gave him the transcript. “I have a new assignment for you,” he said. “Someone broke into the office of the United States Peace Corps. He or they took thirty thousand dollars and stayed to cook a ham, which they ate. There appear to be no clues and the MVD and State Security want no part of it. They see no gain in catching a fool, and they are sure of ridicule if they fail. I, on the other hand, have an instinct for such crimes. Chief Inspector Rostnikov will discuss it with you after I meet with him.”
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