The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Immediately after Rostnikov received the report from Karpo that the terrorists had been caught, the bus recovered, and the driver released, the inspectors left for the hospital. He could return to his office later to complete the reports. A trip to the hospital would also give him time to consider how he would deal with the fact that he had interfered with a terrorism-and-hostage case that had officially been turned over to the KGB. In anticipation of an affirmative outcome to the situation, Rostnikov had already prepared a rough statement, with the Wolfhound’s approval, to the effect that the colonel had simply responded to an informant who indicated that an unnamed criminal was expected to attempt a robbery not far from the Kremlin.

  It was weak, but Rostnikov knew he could fill in the holes. The fact that the policeman at the bridge had called in the approach of the bus gave Rostnikov a fortunate option. Word of the approaching bus had been called in to the KGB, but since Rostnikov’s people were already in the vicinity, they responded and, fortunately, were present.

  It was easier to take an elektrika train than to try to get an automobile and a driver. Besides, the train ride gave him ample time to think.

  Sarah was sitting up in bed and eating when he arrived. She was still wearing a bandage, but it was much smaller than the turban he had last seen. Her red hair was beginning to grow back.

  The two other beds in the room were empty. The girl and the old woman were capable of walking and were down in the patients’ dining room.

  “Don’t look at me,” Sarah said when he came through the doorway. “I have no hair.”

  “It will come back,” said Rostnikov, moving to her side to kiss her cheek. “What are you eating?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, looking down at the tray on her lap. “It’s wet, white and has lumps of something in it. Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, resting on the side of her bed. “What does the doctor say today?”

  “Three, four more days and I can go home,” she said. She handed him the tray, and he put it on the table nearby. “Porfiry, why have we not heard from Iosef?”

  “He’s all right,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ll find out tonight or tomorrow. I’ll talk to him.”

  “It’s not a good experience, the army,” she said, looking at him.

  “One can learn from it,” said Rostnikov. “There is no war now. It’s just boredom, routine, and stupidity.”

  “Yes,” she said, making it evident that she did not believe him. “Ivan Bulgarin, have you found him? How is he?”

  “No,” said Rostnikov, remembering the man who walked like a bear. “But I think we need have no fear about his well-being.”

  “I’m not so certain,” she said. “You know, I thought I was going to die in here.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “I didn’t want to think about the future,” she went on, holding tightly to his rough hand. “Now we should think about the future again.”

  “And what shall we think?” he asked.

  She said nothing and he understood. She was dreaming of leaving the Soviet Union.

  “I’m tired again, Porfiry,” she said. “Those pills they give me.”

  “Sleep,” he said, getting up from the bed. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Don’t forget to eat, Porfiry,” she said dreamily.

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  And instantly she was asleep or pretending to be.

  It was raining gently when Rostnikov stepped out of the hospital. There was a chance, if he moved quickly, that he could catch the ten o’clock train back to Moscow. He was not at all sure he could move quickly, but as it turned out, he did not have to hurry, nor did he have to take the train.

  When Sasha Tkach reached home that evening, he was greeted at the door by Maya and Pulcharia. Maya kissed him, closed the door, and handed him the baby, who leaned over quickly to give his nose a toothless, moist, and gentle bite.

  “Is Lydia home?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Maya said. “And she is in a good mood. She says she is looking forward now to the move. And she is going out tonight. I think Lydia has a date.”

  “Lydia has …” Sasha said.

  Pulcharia tried to poke a finger in his eye, but Sasha turned his head and moved to the chair in the corner of the room.

  “Yes,” Maya said. “She … What’s wrong?”

  The tired smile on Sasha’s face had disappeared. His eyes had fallen on the table, set for dinner and containing a small glass in which were nestled the flowers he had given to Lydia so long ago that morning, the flowers of Sonia Kotsis, who had shot off the top of her head in front of Sasha Tkach.

  Sasha clutched the baby close to him, closed his eyes, and felt Maya’s hand on his head. In the next room, Lydia Tkach burst into a loud and off-key version of something that may have been “Waltzing Matilda.”

  Sasha wept.

  Emil Karpo ate a dinner of bread and herring while working at the desk in his room. He drank mineral water and carefully completed his notes on both the Morchov case and his part in the apprehension of Vasily Kotsis and the rescue of the bus driver. He had written official reports at Petrovka and checked the pending investigations file. On the way to his apartment he had made a slight detour to confront the meat dealer whose name he had been given. The man, standing alone in a small room behind his small shop inches from the pale policeman, had been most cooperative. Karpo was certain that by the next morning he would have in his custody the men who had been kidnapping pets.

  He finished his food, cleared away each crumb carefully, packed his small garbage, and walked it down to the trash room on the first floor.

  It was still early when Karpo returned to his room, took off his jacket and shoes, and sat on the floor to meditate. For a moment he thought he felt the aura of a migraine headache, but it did not come, and he felt a pang of disappointment, for in spite of the pain, the headaches were old acquaintances.

  Porfiry Petrovich had recently suggested to Karpo that the headaches may have been his body’s way of forcing Karpo to relax, to pay attention to his bodily needs. Yes, Karpo thought, remembering his recent conversation with Rostnikov. The machine is not a human body, and the human body is not a machine.

  Emil sat on the floor and crossed his legs, focused on a whorl in the wood of his chair, and found himself imagining Yuri and Jalna alone in the dacha, huddled together with new hope and the specter of murder lifted from them. Karpo refocused, trying to turn the image to white, but the image of the two young people alone, laughing in bed, would not go away.

  Karpo rose from the floor. It was a week early. He had never violated his schedule, had never given in to the animal needs of his body, though he never denied them. But this need he felt was without words and beyond his understanding.

  He would explore it, control it, but first he had to give it what it demanded. Karpo put on his jacket and shoes and left his room. He ignored the light rain and found a phone. He placed his call and waited.

  “Mathilde Verson,” he said to the man who answered the phone. Behind the man he could hear soft jazz music. And then he heard her voice.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “It’s me,” said Karpo.

  “What can I do for you, Emil?” she asked. “You need some information?”

  “No,” he said. “I would like to see you. Are you … available?”

  “It’s not Thursday,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m available,” she said.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said and hung up the phone.

  It was done. He had no idea what he would tell her. All he knew was that for the first time in his life he did not want to be alone.

  The car that pulled up beside Rostnikov on the rain-deserted street near the hospital was large, dark, and not Very old. The rear door opened. Rostnikov could see no one inside, but he recognized the invitation and it was not completely unexpec
ted. The rain had begun to fall harder. Rostnikov moved to the car and slid in next to Schroeder, the hospital administrator. Schroeder glanced at Rostnikov, who closed the door as the driver moved quickly away from the curb.

  “You made a mistake, Comrade Inspector,” Schroeder said without looking at Rostnikov. “You should have been looking for me in the hospital. You should have asked more questions about Ivan Bulgarin. You are in trouble.”

  Rostnikov grunted. He had made no mistake.

  “Why did you stop looking for Bulgarin?” Schroeder asked conversationally.

  And Rostnikov understood. It was Schroeder who had made the mistake, Schroeder who had failed to keep Rostnikov looking for Ivan Bulgarin. It was Schroeder who was in trouble.

  “Ivan Bulgarin did not need my help,” Rostnikov said.

  Neither man spoke again for the remainder of the ride. Schroeder looked out of his window and Rostnikov out of his as the rain quickened and the sound of the windshield wiper lulled.

  The car stopped before the door to Lubyanka, KGB headquarters. The rain had slowed a bit. Rostnikov stepped out and looked back across the square at the statue of Felix Dzerzinsky, father of the Soviet secret police. Schroeder joined him, and the car pulled away.

  The policeman and the KGB man walked to the door and entered. On either side of the dank entryway stood a uniformed and armed guard, who watched as the two men approached the desk in front of them. The woman behind the desk looked at Schroeder, who displayed an identification card, and then at Rostnikov, who removed his identification card and handed it to the woman. She placed the card on a thin metal plate on the corner of the desk and pressed a white button next to the plate. There was a slight hum, and the woman returned Rostnikov’s card without a word.

  The rest of the journey was a familiar one to Porfiry Petrovich. Schroeder moved slowly, allowing Rostnikov to keep pace with him. Rostnikov was sure, however, that Schroeder was not slowing his pace out of concern for the policeman. Schroeder was in no hurry to get where they were going. Up one stairway, down the corridor, and then what he had suspected was confirmed. They stopped in front of a dark, heavy wooden door. Schroeder hesitated and then knocked.

  The door opened and a powerful-looking giant of a man in his late thirties stepped back to let them in. The powerful man wore a dark blue suit. He was clean-shaven with hair blond and cut short, and he looked very like the last man who had opened this door for Rostnikov.

  The powerful man moved across the small carpeted room furnished with three chairs against the wall, a desk with a chair, and a single photograph of Lenin on the wall. The man knocked gently at the far door, and a voice Rostnikov recognized called, “Send him in, Vadim.”

  The powerful man opened the door, and Rostnikov stepped forward. Vadim Schroeder hesitated, considered entering with him, and thought better of it. The door was closed gently behind him by the powerful man when Rostnikov entered the room and found himself facing the KGB officer, Colonel Zhenya.

  Zhenya was no more than forty-five, very young for one of such rank. He had moved up when his predecessor, who was not a young man, died after a long and painful illness. Zhenya, immaculate, thin, balding, and dark, wore his uniform, a uniform devoid of decoration. For an instant Rostnikov looked at the man seated behind the desk with folded hands, the barred window, the uniform, and the sparseness of the room and wondered if Zhenya had created a prison for himself.

  “Sit, Rostnikov,” Zhenya said.

  Rostnikov sat. The rain brushed against the window loudly and then went back to its steady drum.

  Whatever Zhenya wanted, Rostnikov was sure, would not come directly or quickly. It was a game both men had played throughout their lives. Zhenya had started the game. Now he would have to make the first move.

  “You interfered with a KGB operation this morning,” Zhenya said, unclasping his hands and putting a finger on a dark, thick file folder on the desk. “The Turkistani business could have had disastrous consequences as a result of your ego.”

  “I will submit a complete report by morning, Comrade Colonel,” Rostnikov said. “The presence of my colleagues at the square was coincidental.”

  “A fortunate coincidence,” said Zhenya with a smile that was not a smile.

  “Full credit belongs to Colonel Snitkonoy,” said Rostnikov.

  “Yes, I understand he will be properly rewarded for his quick thinking and the efficiency of his staff,” said Zhenya. “He had a very busy, a very productive day.”

  The pause was long. The two men listened to the rain.

  “Do you know why you are here, Rostnikov?” Zhenya said.

  “Nahatchavanski,” said Rostnikov.

  “Yes,” said Zhenya. “Nahatchavanski. That will get your colonel a promotion, more responsibility. And with that come enemies. Your colonel has long been considered a harmless buffoon. Since you have joined his staff, he has become more formidable. I doubt you have done him a service, Rostnikov.”

  “I do my duty,” Rostnikov said.

  “Why did you stop looking for Ivan Bulgarin?” said Zhenya.

  It was time. Rostnikov’s move.

  “There is no Ivan Bulgarin,” said Rostnikov.

  “When did you know this?” asked Zhenya.

  “I suspected from the start,” said Rostnikov. “The naked giant who entered my wife’s room and whispered a cryptic clue to corruption was well staged but a bit coincidental. The mental ward of the hospital is in a far wing. He had to wander a long distance and randomly select the room in which a policeman happened to be visiting.”

  “You were not sure,” said Zhenya.

  “No,” said Rostnikov. “Not then.”

  “You are a suspicious man, Rostnikov.”

  “One has to be to survive,” Rostnikov said with a shrug. “May I rise?”

  “If you must,” said Zhenya.

  Rostnikov rose slowly, bent his left leg, and rubbed the knee.

  “Are you in pain, Rostnikov?”

  “One learns to live with discomfort, Colonel, even pain.”

  “What confirmed your suspicion?”

  “Not the car you had following me,” said Rostnikov, sitting again. “That could have been for a variety of reasons, but it was on the heels of the Bulgarin incident. You made it too easy, Colonel.”

  Zhenya could not keep his back from going straight at the insult, but he let nothing show on his face.

  “Easy,” Zhenya repeated.

  “Lukov, the Lentaka Shoe Factory manager, was too nervous,” Rostnikov went on. “But that could well have been a natural fear of the police. And then he gave up the name of Nahatchavanski too quickly, too easily. Yet that, too, could have been. The papers were too easy to find. It is difficult to believe that a man with the experience of General Nahatchavanski would allow papers that would incriminate him to be left in the files of a shoe factory.”

  “Yes,” Zhenya agreed. “It was too easy, but I had no time for great subtlety. The longer you took, the more likely Nahatchavanski would discover your investigation and, possibly, trace it back to me. What other errors did my staff make? I would like to profit from this experience.”

  “It was not difficult to notice the car that followed us the night we broke into the factory,” said Rostnikov. “Whoever was in that car should have made a pretense at least of searching my apartment, my office, that of my men in case they were seen.”

  “Then, Inspector, why did you let us lead you along?”

  “Because,” Rostnikov answered, “General Nahatchavanski is guilty.”

  There were things that now were better left unsaid. Clearly, Zhenya had used Rostnikov to further his own career and rid himself of an enemy without risking an attack on a fellow KGB officer, an officer who, Rostnikov assumed, he wished to replace. And it was now clear that Rostnikov had used Zhenya to catch a high-ranking criminal within the ranks of the KGB.

  “Have you considered the possibility that you may not leave this building?” asked Zhenya.

>   “Yes, Colonel,” Rostnikov said, looking at the window. The rain had stopped, and there was only darkness. “When I turned over to Colonel Snitkonoy the copy of the papers I had taken from the Lentaka Shoe Factory, I also gave him a report indicating the suspicions I have just related to you. The report also suggested that the apprehension of the general would not have been possible without the aid of cooperative individuals with the KGB. I named no names, for I had none, but I think it would not be difficult to determine who those cooperative individuals are. And, I suspect, if I disappear, the colonel will swiftly pursue the possibilities for my disappearance suggested by my report.”

  Zhenya stood, walked to the window, and looked out, though there was nothing he could possibly have seen in the darkness. He put his hands behind his back and turned to Rostnikov.

  “This is a dangerous game, Rostnikov,” Zhenya warned.

  “For both of us, Colonel. You can rely upon my silence. There is nothing for me in attempting to implicate you.”

  “You want something more, Rostnikov. I want your silence. You want your safety, but you want more,” said Zhenya, moving back to this desk.

  “My wife and I would like to leave the Soviet Union,” Rostnikov said.

  “Impossible,” replied Zhenya.

  “I know,” said Rostnikov. “But I will settle for the release of my son from the army. He has served his time.”

  Iosef Rostnikov’s military service had twice been extended, including an extension during the Afghanistan campaign. The reason given was the need for Iosef’s special skills, skills that had never been utilized by the military. The real reason Iosef Rostnikov was kept in the army was to keep his safety as a sword over the head of his troublesome father.

  “I will inquire,” said Zhenya.

  “I would be grateful for any assistance you can give, Colonel,” said Rostnikov.

  “I don’t like you, Rostnikov,” Zhenya said. “That, I am sure, comes as no surprise to you. You are hampered by a sense of justice at odds with the goals of the State. You interfere, Rostnikov, and you believe that because you are good at what you do you will survive. You will not survive, Rostnikov.”