The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I gather you have just thanked me for giving the flowers to you,” said Rostnikov. “Enough of flowers. Morchov. I returned and found a note from the colonel to report at three on the investigation and condition of Andrei Morchov. It is ten minutes to that hour.”

  Karpo gave his report while standing, and Rostnikov ceased his drawing to listen, nod, and ask a few questions.

  “And,” Karpo concluded, “I believe I should be given an official reprimand or dismissal for my improper conduct of this investigation.”

  “You like the boy,” Rostnikov said, standing with both hands on the desk. His left leg had given him the warning that if he did not attend to it, it would punish him.

  “It would seem so,” said Karpo. “And I allowed that response, which I do not understand, to interfere with my performance of duty. I should have acted more decisively. Had I done so, Comrade Morchov, a valued member of the Politburo, would not have been at risk, would not have been shot.”

  “But he is alive and will be well, Emil Karpo. And no one is going to Lubyanka,” said Rostnikov. “What troubles you, Emil?”

  “Emotion has no place in an investigation,” he said without emotion.

  “For me it is everything in an investigation,” said Rostnikov.

  “Not for me,” replied Karpo. “I cannot carry on the scope of my mission, my responsibility, if my judgment is clouded by personal response. We are quite different people, Inspector.”

  “So I have noticed, Emil Karpo,” said Rostnikov with a sigh. “So I have noticed. You are not reprimanded. You are not dismissed. I need you. But first look at this.”

  Rostnikov turned the pad of paper upon which he had been drawing so that Karpo could see the elaborate tangle of curved and intertwined parallel lines.

  “Do you know what this is, Emil Karpo?”

  “No, I do not,” Karpo said, looking at the pad.

  “That is the water pipe system in my apartment building,” said Rostnikov with satisfaction. “The light paths are the incoming pipelines and the shadowed ones the outgoing. A building can be seen as a replica of the human body. It has a furnace, which is the heart of the body, and a vascular system of pipes to distribute the heat.”

  “Interesting,” said Karpo without interest.

  “I have a point, Emil,” Rostnikov-said, pausing to check his watch. “It is not a coincidence that this metaphor exists, that buildings, institutions can be seen as replicas of the human body. Man makes the world in his own image. He believes the most efficient way for things to work is the way that he works. Are you following me?”

  “Yes, Inspector, but not anticipating where we are going.”

  “I’m fascinated by plumbing, Emil Karpo,” said Rostnikov. “I fancy when I repair it that I am a surgeon, a specialist, and the building is my patient. And I gain satisfaction from this because I know that the system can be reduced to a complex drawing and that once the source of a problem is located it can be repaired. That is quite different from the way we work, Emil. Each suspect, each victim, each witness we meet is more than a predictable series of pipes and heating systems. People are confusion and contradiction. You can tell yourself that you are a logical system, Emil. You can suppress emotion and contradiction but you can’t overcome them. Sometimes it is better to accept the random emotion and its consequences. Do you now understand why I am telling you this?”

  Rostnikov moved from behind his desk and picked up the small bouquet of flowers.

  “I believe so, Comrade,” said Karpo. “You see no function in my exploring the reasons why I responded to Yuri Vostovayek. I believe I can accept that. You also have some task to perform that you would prefer to avoid. You told me all of this at some length, when a few words would suffice, to forestall the moment when you would have to deal with this task. I would say the task involves talking to the colonel and a subject you are not looking forward to addressing and that has nothing to do with what has happened to Comrade Morchov.”

  Rostnikov laughed.

  “Correct, Emil,” he said. “And you came to that conclusion from your knowledge of my past behavior and the nature of my conversation.”

  “Observation and logic,” said Karpo.

  “Some might call it intuition,” said Rostnikov, smelling the flowers. “Zelach and Tkach are in Red Square.

  You’ll find them in the vicinity of Lenin’s Tomb. Please join them. Sasha will explain.”

  And with that, Rostnikov took his flowers and departed.

  There had been no time to think. Boris Trush had been pretending to work on the bus when Vasily and the girl Lia had returned. Boris had been ordered to put on his uniform and get the bus ready instantly.

  “Peotor said I had another day,” Boris protested.

  “Peotor, my father, is no more,” Vasily said, grabbing Boris by the collar and pushing him against the side of the bus. “There are no more days. This is the day to die.”

  Vasily, who Boris had decided the moment the young man had shot the passenger was quite insane, was suddenly on a new level of madness. It was evident in the young man’s blue eyes.

  With Vasily threatening, ordering, screaming, the bus was rolling down the side road near the farm ten minutes after Vasily had returned. Inside the bus were Boris, Vasily, Lia, the three others in the band, weapons piled on the seats, and a box that, Boris knew, contained explosives.

  As he had on the morning Boris and the bus had been taken, Vasily stood at Boris’s side. Vasily’s gun was held low, out of sight of any approaching or passing vehicle. The barrel of the gun was aimed at Boris’s side.

  Vasily ordered Boris to drive to the right, away from the city, when they reached the main road. Vasily wanted to stay away from the store where he had made the phone call. Checking frequently with one of the members of the gang who apparently knew the local roads, Vasily prodded Boris into a series of sharp turns and down cow paths until they came to a highway.

  The spot under his right armpit where the nozzle of Vasily’s gun was pressed was now sore from each bump on the side roads. Boris was sweating again through his uniform.

  “Can you sit down?” he asked. “You’re making me—

  “Shut up and drive, drive, drive,” hissed Vasily.

  “I’m one of you,” Boris reminded him. “Peotor said that I’m one of you. I shot the … I shot that man in Klin. I … you can trust me.”

  “You are a fool, bus driver,” Vasily said. “My father knew you for a fool. I know you for a fool. The games have ended with you. You will drive. We will destroy the tomb, and we will all die. You understand that, bus driver? We, you, will all die. I have a list of all of our names in my pocket so they will know who we are. Your name is on that list, bus driver. My sister was to have mailed that list out of the country so the world would know. My father and sister, if they are alive, will hear what we’ve done and be proud.” And then turning to the others in the bus, he shouted, “Today is the day we die!”

  The returning shouts, Boris thought, were less than enthusiastic.

  Pankov, sitting behind his desk, looked up at Rostnikov, who held out the bunch of flowers.

  “For your desk, Comrade Pankov,” Rostnikov said. “I thought you could use a touch of color.”

  Pankov had not been aware that this afternoon was particularly dark, but he was pleased to have any consideration shown to him, particularly by Rostnikov, whom he liked to consider as a possible ally against the forces that threatened his security.

  “Thank you, Comrade Inspector,” Pankov said, rising to take the flowers. “The colonel is expecting you.”

  “You might want to put them in water immediately,”

  Rostnikov suggested. “I brought them from the Arbat, and they’re beginning to wilt just a bit.”

  Pankov grimaced slightly, retrieved a drinking glass from his desk, and hurried to the outer door.

  “I’ll be back instantly,” he said.

  “I’ll explain to the colonel if he says something,�
� said Rostnikov, and Pankov was out the door.

  As quickly as his leg would allow him, Rostnikov moved around the desk, kneeled, and pulled out the bottom drawer. He reached under it and tore off the envelope in which he had placed the copies of papers he had taken from the Lentaka Shoe Factory. He closed the drawer, stood up, and was still two steps from the colonel’s office door when Pankov returned, glass of water in hand.

  “I ran,” he said, looking at the envelope in Rostnikov’s hand. Pankov was certain, or almost certain, that the inspector had entered the office with nothing but the flowers.

  “I see,” said Rostnikov, who knocked at the colonel’s door and was told to enter.

  Colonel Snitkonoy was resplendent. His uniform, the blue dress suit with all the medals, was pressed and without a speck of dust or lint. The Wolfhound’s hair was neatly and recently brushed. The colonel had risen behind his desk and was pointing with his open hand at the seat across from him, which he invited Rostnikov to take. Rostnikov sat.

  The afternoon was bright through the recently cleaned windows in the colonel’s office. Both men paused. Just a beat. Just a moment. Just a breath. But enough for them to understand that each recognized the conversation that was about to begin would be serious.

  “I’ve just heard from the hospital,” the Wolfhound began. “Andrei Morchov is doing very well. He seems to have had an accident with a gun. Embarrassing. Comrade Morchov would prefer that very few people knew of this accident. I have given him every assurance of our full cooperation, and I understand our counterparts in the KGB will do the same. You understand?”

  “Fully, Colonel,” said Rostnikov. “There will be no report filed.”

  “And the investigation your staff was conducting related to Comrade Morchov is …” The Colonel paused.

  “… closed,” said Rostnikov. “No report. It turned out to be nothing.”

  The Wolfhound placed his long-fingered hands on the dark wooden desk.

  “You have something you wish to discuss with me, Inspector?” he said.

  “I do,” said Rostnikov.

  “Is it something I should know or must know or would want to know?” asked the Wolfhound.

  “I’ll let the colonel decide,” said Rostnikov, placing the envelope on top of the recently polished and highly glossed dark wooden desk.

  Colonel Snitkonoy did not move. His gray eyes met Rostnikov’s and paused. Without looking at the envelope, the colonel reached out and pulled it to him. He hesitated a moment and then opened the flap and pulled out the papers, laying them neatly in front of him.

  While Rostnikov sat, the colonel read, slowly, carefully. At one point—and Rostnikov was sure it was when the colonel saw the name of Nahatchavanski—the Wolfhound’s facade dropped for the first time in Rostnikov’s memory. The colonel’s hand trembled slightly. His lower lip dropped just enough to reveal even, white teeth. And then, instantly, the Wolfhound regained control and went on.

  When he was finished reading the papers, the colonel looked over at Rostnikov and then proceeded to go through the papers once again. At one point while he was doing so, the phone on his desk rang. The Wolfhound ignored it.

  “Badgers, ladders, and copying machines,” the Wolfhound said, putting the papers back into the envelope. “You are aware, I know, of what this means, Porfiry Petrovich.”

  “I believe so,” said Rostnikov.

  “Tell me,” said the colonel.

  “If we turn in this evidence against a high-ranking member of the KGB we run many risks, not the least of which is the possible enmity of those in the KGB who will resent our action even if we succeed in bringing the man named in those documents to justice,” said Rostnikov.

  “You say ‘we,’” the colonel said. “It is I who will be presenting this evidence, Inspector. Where do I say that I obtained it?”

  “It came to my attention during the routine investigation of petty pilfering at the Lentaka Shoe Factory. I was completely shocked and surprised and brought it to your attention immediately.”

  “This could also be the pathway to new respect for our division,” said the colonel. “I spoke to you recently of ambition, Porfiry Petrovich. Respect and ambition have a price. The question is: Are we willing to pay that price? I could, you know, simply turn this over to someone in the procurator’s office and let them take the credit and risks.”

  The Wolfhound looked at Rostnikov for a long moment and made a decision.

  “These medals are not simply decoration, Porfiry Petrovich,” he said. “I earned them by taking chances, youthful chances, necessary chances. And when I earned them, I had the respect of those I respected. I would like to feel like that again. We will do it.”

  With this the colonel rose to his full height behind the desk. This was the cue for Rostnikov to rise, but he did not do so.

  “There is something more, Porfiry Petrovich?” the colonel asked.

  “Yes,” Rostnikov said, and he proceeded to tell the Wolfhound about the death of Peotor and Sonia Kotsis and his belief that an attack on Lenin’s Tomb would be made within minutes or hours.

  FOURTEEN

  SIMEON PROPKIN, THE YOUNG MVD officer guiding late-afternoon traffic crossing the bridge just below the Lenin Hills, was surprised to see the bus moving slowly in the stream of traffic. He was surprised for several reasons. First, according to the sign above the window, the bus was far off route. Though Peotor Kotsis had told him to change the route sign, Boris Trush had simply in his ongoing fear forgotten to do so. The second and perhaps more important reason Simeon Propkin, the traffic officer, was surprised was that he recognized the number of the bus as the one that had been reported missing three days earlier.

  Propkin had been an active member of the MVD for only three weeks, which turned out to be fortunate, since, from the moment he saw the bus, he never considered doing anything but that which he had been told to do. Propkin let the bus pass, left his post, and hurried to the phone in his car parked in the restricted area just beyond the bridge.

  “Don’t speed,” Vasily said as they moved away from the bridge. He punctuated his order with a sharp jab of his gun into Boris Trush’s ribs.

  Boris, who had been unaware that he was going too fast, slowed down.

  “When we get to the square, go past the old church. If no one tries to stop you, drive slowly to the front of the tomb,” Vasily said. “If someone tries to stop you, get to the tomb as fast as you can. Roll over anyone and anything in your way. You understand?”

  “I understand,” Boris said.

  “And then,” Vasily said, “we will all do our job and meet for a toast in hell.”

  They were less than a block from the entrance to the square when a series of events took place. The first was that a barrier had been placed across the road to the square. Boris was the first to see it. It was a yellow-and-white gate. In front of it stood two uniformed MVD men with weapons held ready across their chests. Behind the barrier stood three men, one heavyset, one young with his hair falling over his forehead, and the third tall and pale, as pale and serious as death.

  Vasily saw the barrier and the men only an instant after Boris.

  “Go through it,” Vasily said, putting the gun to Boris’s head.

  “I can’t,” Boris said.

  “You will,” Vasily said, hitting Boris on the top of his head with the barrel of the gun. “You will or this bus will be painted with what little brains you have. You will because I will not fail my father and my sister. You will because this is the best moment of my life and I’ll not have it screwed up by a sweating fool.”

  The bus was moving slowly forward. Boris could clearly see the faces of each man at the barrier. Their guns were now leveled at the window of the bus, at Boris Trush.

  From somewhere behind them, within the bus, a woman’s voice, Lia’s, called: “Give it up, Vasily! We can’t get through!”

  “Shut up!” Vasily shouted, looking out the front window as the bus moved to within fifty y
ards of the barrier.

  “We can’t get through!” came another voice. Vasily let out a terrible shout, a howl of madness. He turned and fired a burst from his machine pistol into the rear of the bus. Windows exploded. Someone screamed. Boris lost control, and the bus careened to the right, hit a light pole, and came to a stop as it tilted over. Vasily tumbled toward the door, losing his grip on the gun. His head hit a window and went through it. Boris, who clung to the steering wheel in fear, reached over to open the front door with the vague thought of getting out. Behind him the terrorists screamed and shouted, and those who were uninjured and alive went through windows.

  Boris let go of the steering wheel and rolled toward the door in total panic. As he went through, Vasily, his face a mask of blood, grabbed him. Boris yelped like a dog and dragged Vasily with him into the street. Boris struck at the hands that clung to him, at the face that bubbled something angry and unintelligible.

  Over Vasily’s shoulder as they rolled on the ground Boris could see the MVD officers and the three men behind the barrier running toward them. He struggled madly to get free of the creature who clung to him. And then Boris Trush found himself on top of Vasily Kotsis and a rush of something animallike and liberating came over him. Boris punched at the creature beneath him, the creature who was trying to strangle him with crimson, sticky fingers. Boris struck and shouted something not even he understood. He was punching furiously when the officers pulled him off the subdued man beneath him.

  “Enough,” said the young man with the hair in his eyes, the one who had been behind the barrier.

  “Enough,” Boris Trush agreed as he was led away.

  His last glimpse of the scene was of the terrorists kneeling on the ground with guns trained on them and more uniformed officers rushing from doorways.

  “Enough,” Boris Trush repeated one more time before he passed out.

  When he awakened hours later in the hospital, Boris Trush would be informed that he was a hero. And he would believe it.