“And?”
“You were well within the law of averages,” she said, looking at her notes. “No significant sign of telepathy or projection. You,” she added, looking at Zelach, who blinked nervously behind his glasses. “You got nothing right. You are phenomenally below the law of averages. It is extremely rare for someone to get not a single correct card in all three experiments. I’ll have to recheck the data.”
“I’m sorry,” said Zelach.
“No,” she said. “It is interesting.”
“You do not seem to be particularly disturbed by the murder of your colleague,” said Karpo suddenly.
“We each carry our grief in our own way, Inspector,” she said. “As you well know, as you have done.”
There were few times in his life when Karpo was unprepared for an eventuality. This was one of those times. Karpo’s loss had been enormous. The only woman who had gotten through to him emotionally-no, the only person who had gotten through to him-had been Mathilde Verson, the redheaded part-time prostitute who had been full of life, and who had seen something in the pale specter that challenged her. Mathilde had been killed in the crossfire of two Mafias while she drank coffee in a bar on a bright summer day.
“What do you know of me?” he asked.
“Little,” she said with a shrug. “But what you should know of me and would probably learn from the director is that I entered this line of research because I have psychic insights. I have, as they said in past centuries, visions. I cannot control them. I usually don’t know what they mean or what I am even seeing, but they are there. I am, in fact, in addition to my own research, a primary research source for Boris Adamovskovich. Who was also here during the murder.”
Zelach was looking from Karpo to Nadia Spectorski. He felt a tension but wasn’t at all sure what it was all about.
“It was an intuitive observation,” Karpo said.
“She had red hair,” responded Nadia Spectorski.
“You have done research on me in the last day,” Karpo said.
“No,” she answered. “I have not, but my job is not to convince you of anything. I have encountered hundreds of nonbelievers in psi phenomena. I have learned not to argue with them. Let’s go see the director now. I know he is expecting you.”
“Psychic knowledge?” asked Karpo as they all rose.
“No, you are scheduled.”
“Shall we argue now?” asked Elena.
They were seated at one of the hundreds of new outdoor cafes and coffee shops that had sprung up in the new Moscow. This one was on Gorky Street. The coffee was exceptional and the owner never charged the police, which was good for Elena and Sasha because they could not have otherwise afforded the two cups and the pastry they had been served. Elena had pushed the sweet ahlahd’yee s yahblahkalmee, “apple puff,” across the table to Sasha. Elena was watching her weight. She was about to be married, maybe, and she did not want to go the way of her mother and her Aunt Anna, who were decidedly overweight. Elena, as men had told her, was well toned and amply plump.
“No argument,” said Sasha, picking up the sweet and taking a bite. He looked at the people at the other tables and smiled.
“I will go to the exchange. I will pose as Yuri’s niece.”
“As you wish,” said Sasha. “You are sure you don’t want a small piece of this?”
“A small piece,” she said with a sigh as he pushed it back toward her. “You’ve changed, Sasha Tkach. Your wife takes your children and leaves you. Your mother who drives you mad moves in with you. And instead of being miserable, you’ve grown more cooperative. If one did not know, one might say you are content.”
“And this bothers you?” he asked.
“No, but it puzzles me. Are you happy that Maya left?”
“No. I want her back. I call her, write to her. I miss both of my children, perhaps Pulcharia most of all. It is almost her fourth birthday. I tell Maya I am changing. She doesn’t believe me. And, yes, even a day with my mother would have been enough to drive Lenin mad. I cannot explain my mood.”
“Nor can I,” she said, eating the rest of the apple puff. “But I will cease questioning it.”
“Proof,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here are the tickets for the movie Yuri handed me. Take them. Go with Iosef.”
“Can’t,” she said. “We have other plans. Perhaps the new Sasha Tkach would like to take his mother.”
“It would be a true test,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I have taken my mother to movies in the past. It would be a true test. This morning, before I could escape, she followed me around, screaming that I should go to Kiev, beg Maya to come back. She said she would give me the money, that she would talk to Porfiry Petrovich. She misses her grandchildren. You know the Protopopovs, downstairs from us?”
“No.”
“It was so early and Lydia was so loud that they banged on the wall,” Sasha said. “I’m a policeman. They know it. Policemen don’t have their walls banged on. Even if you hear shots you don’t bang on a policeman’s wall. They banged.”
“What did you do?” Elena asked.
“After I escaped from my mother I knocked on their door and apologized,” he said. “Before Maya and the children left I would have pounded back and told the Protopopovs to be quiet. You see before you a very changed Sasha Tkach. Taking my mother to a movie will be the true test.”
There was a pause while Elena finished her coffee and Sasha gently drummed on the table with the fingers of his left hand and hummed tunelessly.
“Then I’m the niece?”
“Yes,” he said. “If you wish. And I will be a visiting producer from France. Would you like to hear my French accent?”
“I have heard it. It is fine. I will be the one making the exchange?”
“Yes,” said Sasha.
“I know what the movie is,” Elena said. “It’s English. Something called The Full Monty, a kahmyehdyeeyoo, ‘a comedy.’”
“What is a monty?” Sasha asked.
“I don’t know. Some kind of container, I think.”
“You know if it has subtitles?” Sasha asked hopefully, mindful of the dangers of his mother’s poor hearing, which, coupled with her willfulness and determination, could easily bring an entire audience to its knees or send it in flight from the theater.
“I think it is dubbed,” she said.
“A true test,” he repeated.
Porfiry Petrovich had gone to see Avrum Belinsky alone. Iosef had no interest in joining him. Iosef’s interests lay elsewhere. Besides, Rostnikov had a reason for seeing the rabbi alone.
The walk from Pushkin Square was short so his leg did not protest as he moved. Rostnikov entered the small synagogue that had gone through several incarnations, from church, to government office where work permits were issued, to a minor tourist attraction with minimal restoration so that it resembled a church, and then to a synagogue.
Belinsky was by himself, not in his tiny office just to the left of the entrance, but at the rostrum on the small platform which Rostnikov knew was called a bema. Belinsky seemed to be lost in thought, a pen in hand, looking down at some papers.
Belinsky had been in Moscow only a few years. He had started a congregation and almost immediately had found the young men in his small congregation being murdered. Belinsky himself had almost been killed by the murderers, who had acted not out of a commitment to anti-Semitism but to drive the congregation out of existence and out of the synagogue where they knew a valuable bejeweled artifact was hidden. With Belinsky’s help, Rostnikov had caught the murderers. Now, the policeman and the rabbi were close to being friends.
Belinsky was a powerfully built man of average height. He had been a soldier, an extremely well trained Israeli soldier who was familiar with confrontation, sacrifice, and death. He had been chosen to go to Moscow precisely because he was determined and capable of taking care of himself and his congregation.
“Porfiry Petrovich,” Belinsky said, looking up with a
smile and touching his short black beard.
“Avrum,” Rostnikov answered, deciding not to sit in one of the several dozen folding chairs that faced the platform on which the young rabbi stood.
“I was working on a sermon,” Belinsky said, moving away from the bema and approaching Rostnikov with his hand out.
The two men shook hands and Belinsky motioned for Rostnikov to take a seat. He could not refuse. Rostnikov did not trust wooden folding chairs. They had disappointed him in the past. He sat carefully and the rabbi turned one of the chairs around to face him.
“I was in Pushkin Square,” Rostnikov said.
“And you decided to pay me a visit,” said Belinsky.
Rostnikov nodded. “But that is not all,” he said.
“Sarah,” said the rabbi.
“She goes out every Friday night,” said Rostnikov. “She says she is going to see her cousin or friends. But she is coming here to attend services.”
“Yes, she is Jewish.”
“She has been through a great deal,” said Rostnikov. “Surgery. I almost lost her.”
“I know.”
“It does not surprise me that she would turn to the religion of her grandfather,” said Rostnikov. “And it is reasonable that she would come here, to you.”
“But?”
“I do not understand why she has not told me. Are you under some rule, like a Catholic priest or something, that prevents you from telling me?”
“No, but I think you should ask her. Would you like a drink? Water? I even have some wine and Pepsi-Cola in my office.”
“No, thank you. I plan to ask her, but I have learned that it is a good idea if at all possible to be prepared for what might turn out to be a difficult situation.”
It was Belinsky’s turn to nod. “She is concerned.”
“Afraid,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes. She is seeking some deeper meaning in life and has turned to a reasonable place for that meaning.”
“And has she found it?” asked Rostnikov.
“I don’t think so. Not yet. Maybe never. Let me tell you a secret, Porfiry Petrovich. There is no meaning we can find. Our God does not give us simple answers. His only answer is in the enigma of the Bible, of our Torah. I have come to the conclusion that if we seek openly we come to realize that the Bible is telling us to accept what is-the good, the evil. God makes no sense we can understand, just as the world makes no sense we can understand. We can only accept what is and we can find solace in that acceptance. Accept life. Do not ask God for justice, mercy, goodness. God is, like man, a mystery. He can act in ways that make no sense to us. He can change his mind. He can destroy us or grant us mercy, and there is no fathoming why he does any of this.”
“That is the sermon you are working on?”
“Yes,” said the rabbi, touching his dark beard and smiling.
“You do not wish to answer my question,” said Rostnikov.
“In a way, I have. Ask Sarah.”
Rostnikov rose.
“The heating system working well?”
“Yes, you did a good job. This winter will be the real test.”
“The toilet?”
“A work of art. Thank you.”
“Then,” said Rostnikov, “there is no more to say.”
“Not now,” said Belinsky.
They shook hands again and Rostnikov made his way out onto the street. He was lost in thought, half a block away, when he remembered that he had meant to ask Avrum Belinsky where he had been during the morning storm.
Chapter Four
The director of the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology, Andrei Vanga, was clean shaven, white haired, and wearing a rather rumpled brown suit and a tie that was no match for it. He was a slight, nervous man who habitually played with the gold band on the small finger of his left hand. His office was large. The furniture was well-polished wood with comfortable chairs and even a small brown leather couch. The paintings on the wall were originals, though a close examination would reveal that the artists were not particularly well known.
Nadia Spectorski had left them to return to her work. Zelach and Karpo had been guided to the sofa by the director, who took Zelach’s arm.
“We would prefer the chairs,” Karpo said.
“As you wish,” said Vanga, backing off and moving three of the four chairs in the room into a mini circle so they could face each other.
Vanga’s face was pink and solemn. He leaned forward attentively, playing with his gold band, ready to help.
“Do you have any ideas about why someone might kill Sergei Bolskanov?”
“None,” said the director.
“No enemies?” asked Karpo.
“None,” said the director sadly.
“Everyone liked him?”
“Everyone,” said the director. “He was a quiet, pleasant, hardworking scientist. We all admired him.”
“We have heard otherwise,” said Karpo.
“Well,” said the director with a knowing smile. “He could be a bit … how shall I say? A bit gruff, but just a bit.”
“Someone hit him repeatedly with a hammer,” said Karpo.
“I know,” said the director.
“It is possible that it was done by someone who did not like him.”
“Of course,” the director said with a shrug.
Zelach was paying close attention and had concluded that they were going to get little from Vanga, but Karpo persisted.
“Could someone profit from stealing the results of Bolskanov’s work?”
“Profit? Make money?”
“Make money, win acclaim, respect.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We don’t think like that. We’re afraid to. Someone around here might read our minds,” said the director with a smile.
Neither of the detectives returned the smile.
“It was just a joke,” said the director earnestly, “an attempt to lighten … I spend much of my time raising money. I sometimes use that …”
“And your research?” asked Karpo.
“Psychic phenomena during dream states,” he said. “I have written forty papers presented at conferences all over the world. I’ve written two books. I’d give you both copies but they are a bit old and I have only a few left. But I’m working on a new article which I believe will be modestly important in the field. I …”
“Bolskanov also did dream research,” said Karpo.
“Correct,” said Vanga. “I brought him into the center. We worked together on many projects. He often came to me for advice, to review his findings, to …”
“We would like your shoes,” said Karpo.
“My … I beg your pardon.”
“Your shoes,” Karpo repeated.
“Now, these?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You will get them back before the end of the day,” said Karpo. “Please take them off and give them to Inspector Zelach.”
A bewildered director began removing his well-polished brown patent-leather shoes.
“I’ll have to wear my spare pair,” he said. “They are black and …”
“We will take those also,” said Karpo.
“I’ll have to walk around all day in my stockinged feet.”
“You will not be alone,” said Karpo.
Vladimir Kinotskin had been warned that policemen were coming to talk to him. He had been told that it could not be avoided. He had been informed that it was about Tsimion Vladovka, who was, as he well knew, missing.
Vladimir had changed greatly since he had returned to earth. He had lost weight and his once-blond hair was almost completely white. His youthful handsome face had darkened too and taken on several rigid lines. He did not smile. His ambition had, for good reason, deserted him. He had no goal beyond continuing his routine work and keeping to himself. He had given up all hope of marriage and family. He could not imagine subjecting a woman to his moodiness, and he knew he could not pretend to be h
appy or even content. All he hoped for was an eventual truce with his memories, a fragile peace of mind with which he could live, but he doubted he would achieve it.
Perhaps he should have run like Vladovka, if that is what Vladovka had done. They had seen each other infrequently since the moment the shuttle had landed. They never spoke when they passed.
Vladimir had two hours before the police arrived. He had decided to walk, to walk aimlessly, to think about how he would answer the questions Mikhail Stoltz had posed to him.
“Just tell the truth,” Stoltz had said.
“You want me to tell the truth?”
“Yes.”
“But …”
“The truth,” Stoltz had repeated.
The boyish exuberance that might once have been enough to protect Vladimir was gone. The confrontation would be difficult. Stoltz had put a hand on his shoulder and told him he would be just fine. Then Stoltz had him driven from Star City to the Moscow office of the space program.
Vladimir Kinotskin was not sure he would be fine, but he thought he could be good enough.
It was growing humid and hot after the morning rain, and Vladimir had left his jacket on the back of a chair in the office that had temporarily been assigned to him. He had sweated through the white shirt he was wearing. He had loosened his tie and he had gone out to walk and try not to think.
Now he found himself before the Church of Simeon Stylites. He remembered something, something Vladovka had mentioned during the long flight. Vladovka had read some poems to him, poems by Mikhail Lermontov, who had lived more than a century ago. Lermontov, whom Kinotskin had read but not remembered, was also an artist. Vladovka had read but Vladimir had not really listened. Now he remembered.
He went around the church down to Vorovskogo Street and into the small alley which is Malaya Molchanovka Street. The house was there. Now a museum, the house where Lermontov lived with his grandmother stood, restored, modest. Nine windows downstairs, three up, a small gable. Perhaps Vladimir was paying homage. He wasn’t sure to what he was paying homage, but it felt right, the proper preparation for the interrogation he would soon undergo.
There was no one in front of the wooden house. After all, one had to know it was there and wend one’s way back to it to find the unassuming structure.
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