The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “For his own good,” said Rostnikov, sighing. “I must leave now. Your son is sitting at his desk with his head in his hands and not getting his work done.”

  “I’m deaf, Rostnikov, not stupid!” she shouted. “My son would not sit at his desk like a whipped child. Don’t call and play games with me.”

  “He is a good man and I need him,” said Rostnikov. “And he is a good son. And you need him. Think about it, Lydia Tkach, and we’ll talk about it at lunch. I’ll come for you at two.”

  “You can’t bribe me out of my apartment with a bowl of soup and a blini!” she bellowed.

  “Think about it,” he repeated.

  “I can get off for lunch at one, not two,” she said in a nearly normal tone.

  “Good-bye,” he said.

  When he hung up the receiver, Rostnikov knew he would have to hurry to make the Wolfhound’s morning meeting. He hoped the meeting would be brief.

  The computer came up with several names and places for Zelach and Sasha Tkach. There was the new Center for Turkistani Culture. There was a prisoner in Lubyanka who was suspected of robbing a couple on the Metro. When arrested he claimed to be liberating the money to make bombs to demonstrate the seriousness of Turkistani cultural identity. Of course, the young man was drunk when arrested, but he was being held nonetheless. There were other names. Tkach made a printout and signed for it. He gave Zelach half the names and took half for himself. It would be faster this way, though Sasha had no confidence in Zelach asking the right questions. If Sasha turned up no leads, he would have to go back and check Zelach’s list himself. He was not particularly sure of his own ability to do his own job, let alone Zelach’s, without a bit of undisturbed sleep, but he felt a sense of urgency. What would Turkistani separatists want with a bus? Why would they want it so much that they would kill for it? And why would they want a bus driver?

  Three hours later, he had talked to the young man in prison, who proved to be a braggart, a drunk, and a fool. Three other leads proved to be useless and, what is worse, quite distant from each other.

  By one in the afternoon, Sasha wanted to think, to wake up. The afternoon was brisk, cool, and threatening, once again, to rain. He walked down to Petrovka Street past the Bolshoi Theater’s eight tall stuccoed columns, atop which stood four rearing horses harnessed to the chariot of Apollo. He crossed Marx Prospekt to the garden in front of the 220-ton monument to Karl Marx, which had been officially completed and shown on Sasha’s sixth birthday. Lydia, he remembered, had brought him down for the unveiling of the great man, who leaned eternally against a stone rostrum as if in midspeech, while below him were engraved his words of revolution, “Workers of the world, unite.”

  Beyond Sverdlov Square he glanced at the old Central Lenin Museum and moved down into the huge underground connection to the Revolution Square, Sverdlov Square, and Prospekt Marksa Metro Stations. Ten minutes later he stepped out of the Volgograd Prospekt Station, found a small café when he had two coffees in the hope that they would wake him up, and made his way to the run-down concrete building that housed the Center for Turkistani Culture and dozens of other offices, causes, and businesses that awaited a moment of respect or recognition that might never come.

  The Center for Turkistani Culture, as it turned out, consisted of two mismatched desks, one of metal with rust creeping through the thin layer of paint, the other of battered wood. A quartet of wooden chairs stood in the corner of the room, with a table in the middle where two very old men, one of whom was turning out billows of gray smoke from an ancient and foul-smelling pipe, were playing a game of chess.

  Behind one of the desks sat a very dark woman who was neither young nor old nor very interested in the visitor. She wore a serious dark dress that came up to her collar and a more serious, short, no-nonsense hair style.

  She looked very Greek to Sasha, who showed his identification card.

  “So you are a policeman,” she said, apparently unimpressed, her hands folded.

  “Are you here to return our country to us?” said the old chess player with the pipe. The other man grunted.

  A year ago such talk to a policeman could have been enough for a journey to Petrovka. It was still not the safest thing to do even in a mad world, but Sasha was too tired for such games.

  “I’m looking for some men and a woman,” he said, addressing the woman behind the desk. “Possibly a group of young people and an older man. Turkistanis who may have some knowledge of a crime.”

  “Not much to go on,” the woman said.

  Sasha suddenly felt like a schoolchild in front of his teacher. Yes, the woman looked like a teacher.

  “If these people commit a crime, your cause will be set back,” Sasha tried.

  Both old men laughed, and the one who had spoken before removed the pipe from his mouth and spoke again. “A cause that has gotten nowhere cannot be set back.”

  “It can be destroyed,” said Sasha.

  “Threats?” said the old man, now looking up from the board.

  “Play,” said the other man irritably. “Play the game. Mind your business, Ivan.”

  “No threats,” Sasha said, holding up his hands and smiling boyishly.

  “We know of no one like that,” said the woman.

  “They may have killed a man yesterday,” Sasha pressed on, feeling that the woman did know something, did have an idea. That possibility woke him, made him alert.

  “Unfortunate,” said the woman. “I have much work to do here. If you would please leave, I would—”

  “A name, a name from any of you,” Sasha said. “No one will know where I got it, and the police would be in your debt.”

  “In our debt?” the old man named Ivan said. “How much in our debt?”

  “We cannot pay for information,” Sasha said, turning to the old man, who made a move that the other old man quickly pounced upon.

  “A permit to hold a meeting,” Ivan said.

  “Ivan,” the woman behind the desk warned.

  “Donkey shit,” said Ivan, pointing his pipe at her. “I’m eighty-two years old. What are they going to do to me? Kill me? I give him a name. Maybe some people we can’t talk to reasonably get sent away by the police, and we get a permit to meet. What do you say, police boy?”

  “I say let me make a phone call,” he replied.

  “And I say,” said Ivan, “tell me now. I’ve just lost this game to this, this piss-hill dwarf, and I want to get out of here and get a drink.”

  “I don’t have the authority,” Sasha said.

  “Then you don’t get a name,” said old Ivan, standing up and putting on a frayed cap.

  “I’ll get you a permit,” he said.

  “Ivan,” said the woman with a sigh, “you are a fool.”

  “And we are going to have a permit,” he said with a grin that revealed an almost toothless mouth.

  “You trust this policeman?” the woman said, looking at Sasha.

  “Why not?” Ivan said with a shrug. “What we have to lose? Tell him the name, Lavrenti.”

  The other man got off his chair, and Sasha saw that he was indeed nearly a dwarf.

  “You won the game,” said Ivan. “Now tell the boy who he is looking for.”

  “Peotor Kotsis,” said the little man.

  “Peotor Kotsis,” Sasha repeated.

  “Where did you hear that name?” asked Ivan.

  “Where did I … he just …” And Sasha understood. “Someone called in with a tip,” Sasha said, looking at the woman, who pretended to be busy with her papers.

  “What did we tell you?” Ivan asked.

  “I don’t recall,” said Sasha. “What would this caller tell me about how to find Peotor Kotsis?”

  “Who knows?” said Ivan, putting his hand on the little man’s shoulder. The two shuffled to the door and left.

  “You’re not going to get a permit for us, are you?” the woman said.

  “I will get the permit,” Sasha said, anxious to leave. “I wi
ll get the permit.”

  “The man on the phone. The one who called you? He told you to look for a girl named Sonia selling flowers on the Arbat.”

  “A girl named Sonia,” Sasha repeated. “Where on the Arbat?”

  “How would I know?” the woman said without looking up. “He called you, not me.”

  The Gray Wolfhound sat behind his desk, back straight, afternoon sun catching his distinct, etched profile. He wore a brown uniform with only three medals, but those medals caught the sun, and their reflections danced on the walls of the semidarkened room. The Wolfhound read the reports in front of him slowly, muttering an occasional “hmm” or “ah” as he turned the pages.

  Rostnikov had decided to stand rather than sit, though the colonel had suggested that he make himself comfortable. If it took the Wolfhound five more minutes, Rostnikov would have to sit. The ache would come and he would have to relieve it. He had sat through a full hour of Major Grigorovich explaining parade routes. And then Pankov had stumbled over a financial report. When they had left, the Wolfhound had asked Rostnikov to stay so the colonel could more closely examine the current cases under investigation.

  Colonel Snitkonoy put down the reports and looked up at his investigator. But still he did not speak. He put the tips of his long fingers together, tapping them lightly twice. “You know what is happening in China, Porfiry Petrovich?” he said finally.

  “I’ve heard of unrest,” Rostnikov said, his eyes meeting those of the Wolfhound’s.

  “Unrest, yes,” said the colonel. “It is speculated that the reforms in our country provided the model for the Chinese response. Do you think that likely?”

  There was usually, but not always, a point to the colonel’s seemingly random observations.

  “According to Engels, all things are possible that fall within the range of scientific probability and the laws of nature,” said Rostnikov. It was not, in fact, Porfiry Petrovich’s operative philosophy, but it was one of the acceptable responses. One could, and sometimes did, get through life by engaging in a prescripted dialogue founded upon clichés drawn from Marx, Engels, Lenin, and the latest acceptable interpreter of revolutionary truth.

  “There are people, people in our government who are especially sensitive at the present time,” said the Wolfhound, rising, two hands open flat on the table. “What we do impacts on the world. One small error, scandal, indication of hypocrisy on the part of our government and our credibility will be seriously undermined.”

  Rostnikov was beginning to see what was coming. It had happened before. He had handled it before, but not always to his own satisfaction. Someone wanted him to stop probing.

  “Find your thief at the shoe factory,” the Wolfhound said. “Deal with the hysterical woman and her son. Find the bus. If you find more than a shoe thief, a bragging son, and a drunken bus driver, deal with the situation, but deal with it within the bounds outlined in your reports. These are tender times for me and those who work for me. Trouble wears many disguises. Unmask it carefully, Comrade Inspector.”

  “I will,” said Rostnikov.

  “Good,” said the Wolfhound with a sigh, indicating that this phase of the conversation was over. He stepped around from behind his desk, put his hands behind his back, and walked to the window. “Did you know that Deputy Andrei Morchov is a friend of mine?”

  “I did not know,” said Rostnikov.

  “I’ll say nothing to him when I see him tonight at the reception for the Chinese cultural envoy,” said the Wolfhound, gazing out at the quickly dropping sun. “But if he asks me about the investigation, I will tell him that it appears to be nothing but the absurdity of a headstrong youth.”

  “That would seem reasonable,” Rostnikov agreed.

  “And I would like the deputy to be undisturbed in the future over so slight a matter,” the colonel added.

  “I will see to it that Deputy Morchov is undisturbed over slight matters,” Rostnikov agreed.

  “I am going to confide in you, Porfiry Petrovich,” the Wolfhound said, still looking out the window. There were no lights on in the room, and the walls were fast disappearing. Rostnikov was not sure that he wanted the colonel’s confidence.

  “My position is largely ceremonial,” the Wolfhound said. “I know that. You know that. Ceremony is essential in a state in which people who represent us are often without …”

  “Presence,” Rostnikov supplied.

  “Presence, yes,” the colonel agreed. “And dignity. And pride.”

  Rostnikov thought he detected a smile in the corner of the famous profile.

  “I’ve made few if any enemies, Porfiry Petrovich. I am permitted an investigative staff, your staff, consisting of personnel who are not wanted in other departments but, for reasons I cannot always fathom, are too valuable simply to dismiss. We are permitted to function, investigate as long as we remain harmless, unthreatening to other investigative bodies. I’ll not ask you if you understand where I am going with this. You are always well ahead of me.”

  “I’m not—” Rostnikov began.

  “I have neither the time nor the disposition to listen to false modesty,” the Wolfhound said with a deep sigh. “I do not possess modesty, and I do not admire it in others. My political future is suddenly very promising, Porfiry Petrovich. If I—we—do not stumble. If the reforms continue, we may emerge with more than a ceremonial image. You understand?”

  Colonel Snitkonoy turned, his face now hidden by shadows, and Rostnikov nodded.

  “Good,” the colonel said. “Be careful. Since you have joined my staff, you and your associates, we have attracted attention, a new respect, but respect has a price. Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich. I’m late. I’m to be at the reception in one hour.”

  “One last thing, Colonel,” Rostnikov said, taking the requisition form from his pocket and flattening it on the colonel’s desk. “I would appreciate your signature so I can obtain a few items to complete a minor investigation.”

  The colonel moved to Rostnikov’s side and looked down at the requisition. He read the list and looked at Rostnikov.

  “An automobile for the night,” he said. “A French folding ladder. A portable battery-operated copying machine. And a—”

  “I can explain,” said Rostnikov.

  “Do I want to hear the explanation?” asked the colonel.

  “Probably not,” Rostnikov said.

  “Then I will allow my curiosity to give way to self-interest.” He signed his name with a flourish. “Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich.”

  The colonel looked down at his watch, turning his wrist to catch the last of the sun. The cue was clear, and Rostnikov headed for the door, opened it gently, and stepped into the light of the outer office, closing the colonel’s door gently behind him.

  “The lights are out,” said Pankov, the colonel’s assistant, greeting Rostnikov at the door.

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov, moving past the tiny man who patted the few strands of hair on his head in a fruitless effort to make them behave less willfully.

  “He has had something on his mind for days,” said Pankov.

  “It would seem,” Rostnikov agreed.

  “Is he … in a mood?” Pankov asked, looking at the Wolfhound’s door.

  Yes, the Wolfhound was in a mood, but what the mood was had been difficult for Rostnikov to determine. It was as if the colonel had a piece of information, something to say, something he could not bring himself to convey or was unable to speak. Rostnikov had been sure that he or one of his men was going to be warned off of an investigation, but the warning had not come, and that disturbed Rostnikov. A direct warning would make sense and could be dealt with.

  “He is in a mood,” Rostnikov said, looking back at the obviously frightened man. “But an introspective one, a benevolent one.”

  “He can—” Pankov began with a wry smile, but the smile and thought were erased by the colonel’s deep voice bellowing through the inner door.

  “Pankov!” called the Wolfh
ound.

  Pankov patted down his hair and hurried for the Wolfhound’s door, forgetting the inspector, who left the office with a requisition for the items he would need that night to break into the offices of the Lentaka Shoe Factory.

  At the very moment, or close to it, that Pankov opened the door of Colonel Snitkonoy’s office and found himself in almost total darkness, four people entered an equally darkened barn in a wooded area on the outskirts of the town of Klin.

  The four people were Boris Trush the bus driver, Peotor and Vasily Kotsis, and an Oriental-looking young woman of clear features who said nothing and wore a knowing smile.

  Boris had sat in the backseat of the Volga between Peotor and Vasily, while the unnamed woman drove. There was not enough room in the backseat for three people. Thigh pressed against thigh. Garlic, tobacco, and sweat enclosed Boris, who was wearing worn farming clothes. The clothes were too large and smelled bad. Boris’s sweating and the proximity of his captors did not improve the situation.

  And all the way to Klin, as they drove along the Leningrad Highway for more than fifty miles, Peotor waxed on about the history of the area.

  “Boris, Comrade,” Peotor said confidentially, “I was a teacher of music. A teacher of music. And history. We are making a historic journey.”

  Vasily reached down and checked the automatic rifle in his lap. Something clicked. Boris shuddered. Peotor paused and men continued. “The town of Klin was founded in 1318. A beautiful town on the high bank of the Sestra River.” He turned to look out the window at the rows of birch trees. “Have you ever been there, Boris?”

  “No,” said Boris.

  Vasily smiled at him.

  “There are two impressive old churches in Klin, one built in the sixteenth century and another in 1712, both quite different in design. We may catch a glimpse of the newer church, baroque, not my preference. But it is not the churches that people go to Klin to see.”

  “Tchaikovsky,” Boris muttered, his voice dry, cracking.

  “Yes,” said Peotor, turning to look at the bus driver with a touch of respect.

  “Tchaikovsky’s house still stands, unchanged, as it was, a museum,” Peotor said softly. “The Nazis occupied Klin in 1941, brutalized the house, but it was restored.”