“I understand,” said Rostnikov.
The vehicle, whatever and whoever it was, was now driving up to the Vladovka farmhouse.
“I’m not sure which of us killed him,” Tsimion continued. “It doesn’t matter. We both murdered him. The first murder in outer space, followed by the first burial in space. We sent him into eternity to cover our crime. For you see, we did not have to kill him. But we did. I have considered it many times. We could have subdued him, but we were in a chamber of madness, in a state of instant delirium. We didn’t check with ground control. We simply put the body in a chamber and released it into space. We didn’t watch. We spent hours cleaning up after we disposed of the body. Horrible hours. Nightmare hours. No one has experienced what we have. May no one have to again.”
A man was now running through the field toward them.
“We were told to say nothing,” Tsimion continued. “We were told that we would be brought back to earth immediately, that those who were coming for us would know what had happened. We were told that we were to act as if there had been a minor problem on the station and that all three of us were coming down. We had solved the problem. We were space heroes. The three of us were coming down. We were told that our space program did not have enough money. Our national pride was at stake during difficult political times, but when are there not difficult political times? We came down. We were silent. Kinotskin took it harder than I did. His career, his ambition, were gone. He grew gaunt and became a hollow man. And they thought about it, thought, as I knew they someday would, that we might decide to tell what happened, tell of the cover-up. They decided to kill us all. Those who came to bring us back to earth, and both of us.”
“Why did you want me to be told of what happened on that flight? Why did you call my name?”
Tsimion Vladovka shook his head. “I made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” asked Porfiry Petrovich.
“I was in a panic. I had heard your name in relation to some political situation a few years ago, but I really wanted to call out the name of my friend Peotor Rosnishkov. In my panic …”
“… you called out my name.”
Tsimion Vladovka shrugged. Rostnikov smiled.
“You have a weapon?” Tsimion was looking at the man running toward them.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “You?”
“No.”
A moment later it was clear to Vladovka as it had been minutes ago to Rostnikov that a weapon would not be necessary, at least not at that moment. The man running toward them was Iosef. When he was a dozen paces in front of them, he stopped, breathing hard.
“The man who called himself Primazon,” Iosef said. “He came into the house. He asked where Konstantin was. Boris spoke to him. I couldn’t hear, then Boris killed him. Before I could act, he had reached up and snapped his neck.”
Tsimion Vladovka started toward the house. Rostnikov stopped him, gripping the bearded man with a solid grasp of his arm. Vladovka tried to pull away, grabbed “wrist and tried to free himself. He could not.
“We must think,” said Rostnikov. “Pause and think. You understand?”
Tsimion stopped struggling and Rostnikov released his grip before saying, “The driver, Laminski, did he see? Where was he?”
“He was outside, at the car. When I came out of the house and started running to tell you, he asked me what was happening. I told him to get inside the car and wait. I ordered him to get inside the car. He did.”
“Who else was there, in the house, when this happened?”
“We three were the only ones in the room,” said Iosef.
The three men stood for a few seconds and then Rostnikov said, “We will walk back to the house very calmly. The three of us. And on the way, we will make a plan, a very good one. I don’t know what it will be at the moment, but it will have to be a very good one.”
“Wait,” said Andrei Vanga, trying his best to think quickly. “My fingerprints are on that disk.”
Both Karpo and the old man, Tikon Tayumvat, looked at the director of the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology. The director looked very, very nervous.
“I can explain,” said Vanga.
“Then do so,” said Karpo, holding the disk carefully by the edges.
“I will,” said Vanga.
“Man can’t think on his feet,” Tayumvat said with derision. “No wonder it takes him so long to write a simple second-rate article.”
“I promised Bolskanov that I would not allow anyone to see his private journals,” said Vanga. “We had been working together for a long time, and from time to time he confided in me as I confided in him. You see?”
“I see nothing,” said the old man. “Is this going to take long? I’ll sit down if it’s more than five minutes. Ah, I see. You have no idea how long you are going on. I’ll sit at the desk and watch and listen.”
“Yes, yes,” Vanga went on, holding the fist of his left hand in the palm of his right. “His private diary is on the computer. It is very personal. He-he didn’t want it to be made public if he were to die. I promised that it would never happen, and in return he promised me the same.”
Karpo said nothing, simply stood at attention, disk in hand, watching and listening.
“I keep my promises,” said Vanga.
“And what was in that diary that was so terrible?” said Tayumvat.
“I cannot tell you. You can take my job, put me in prison even, but I am sworn to secrecy.”
“There may well have been something in his diary or in another file that would help us find his murderer. You have willfully destroyed potential evidence,” said Karpo.
Vanga smiled ruefully. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just thought of what I had promised my friend.”
“You are under arrest, Dr. Andrei Vanga,” said Karpo. “For possible concealment of knowledge regarding a murder, and for suspicion of murder.”
“Why? Are you joking? Why would I kill my friend, my colleague?”
Karpo handed the disk to Tayumvat, who took it carefully by the edges, and then Karpo stepped toward Vanga, who backed away.
“Wait, wait,” said Vanga. “What if I were to tell you what secrets he had in his diary, why he didn’t want it seen? What if I did that?”
Karpo paused, and Tayumvat looked up with a smile that showed he anticipated another lie.
“Bolskanov was a homosexual,” said Vanga.
“That’s it?” said Tayumvat. “You can do no better than ‘Bolskanov was a homosexual’?”
“And …” Vanga said, his voice breaking, “and he had committed crimes when he was young, terrible crimes, crimes of which he was very much ashamed. He stole other people’s work, passed it on as his own.”
“A terrible crime,” Tayumvat said with a shake of his head. “Come, Vanga, this has turned into the most interesting human contact I have had in half a century. Don’t disappoint me. Don’t disappoint Inspector Karpo. Tell us more terrible crimes.”
“What and … oh … yes, let me … he murdered someone, many years ago, in … in Lithuania, Kaunas. And in another country.”
“Much better,” said Tayumvat.
“Why?” asked Karpo.
“Why what?” said Vanga.
“Why did he kill these other people?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“In any case, you are guilty of concealing a murder, possibly several murders,” said Karpo.
“But that was in another country,” said Vanga. “Lithuania is no longer part of greater Russia, which may be good or bad, depending on your politics. But that is another country now and I do not know who he murdered. I think it was a cab driver. No, a-yes, it was a cab driver.”
Vanga looked at Karpo, whose face revealed nothing, and then at Tayumvat, whose face revealed everything in its myriad lines and shadows.
“You don’t believe me,” Vanga said. “You think I am lying.”
“You are under arrest,” said Karpo.<
br />
“I stand by what I have told you,” said Vanga indignantly. “I stand by the memory of my best friend and his wishes.”
“But you told us his secrets,” said Tayumvat. “In a bizarre attempt to save yourself, you told us what you had supposedly sworn to destroy. I wash my hands of you. Consistency is essential if one is to propose a scientific theory, especially one who works with the paranormal. You can’t even create a decent lie. I will but guess why you killed Bolskanov. It was you who stole something from him, an article, speech. He caught you. You killed him.”
“I don’t need to steal someone else’s ideas and work,” Vanga said.
“Yes, you do,” said Tayumvat. “You can’t come up with an original thought of your own.”
“I will get a good attorney,” said Vanga. “I will see to it that you, Inspector Karpo, are dismissed from service. I will demand an apology from the highest levels.”
“Karpo,” said Tikon Tayumvat, “at my age I don’t wish to hear rehashed speeches from old television shows. Please, the scene is over. Take me home and take him away.”
And that is just what Emil Karpo did.
Chapter Thirteen
“We will walk back rather slowly,” said Rostnikov to his son and Tsimion Vladovka. “For two reasons. First, I am incapable of moving quickly, and, second, I do not want our driver, Laminski, to think that anything is wrong. I am sure he would prefer that nothing be wrong. Iosef, engage him. Tell Ivan Laminski of your exploits in the theater or in Afghanistan or with women. Smile, listen to him, and reassure him that everything is fine and that we will soon be going to St. Petersburg.”
Iosef nodded as they moved forward through the field. Rostnikov turned his head to Tsimion and said, “And you will come with me. We will talk calmly of farming. I will ask a question. You will answer. And we will improvise if your father comes out of the house.”
“I have grown accustomed to improvising,” said Tsimion.
“I like the smell of freshly harvested potatoes,” said Rostnikov as they cleared the field and neared the farmhouse. Laminski stood waiting. He adjusted his blue uniform as they approached. He said nothing, but there was certainly a look of curiosity in his less-than-brilliant eyes. Iosef moved toward the somewhat bewildered driver.
“What? …” Laminski began.
“I’ll explain,” said Iosef. “I made a mistake. There was no reason for me to go running after Inspector Rostnikov. He had forgotten to take some medication and I wanted to be sure he got it quickly.”
“Are there parts of Russia where potatoes grow better?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, loud enough for the driver to hear them.
“Different, not better necessarily,” said Tsimion. “There are different kinds of potato. In this region …”
And they were inside the door. Tsimion closed it behind them. They found Boris in the kitchen, alone with the corpse. Boris was sitting at the table, looking down at the body of the man who had called himself Primazon. The dead man was sprawled awkwardly, one leg straight, the other bent backwards in an L. He was on his back. His head was turned toward the nearest wall and he was looking upward at a spot where there was nothing to see. His umbrella lay a foot or so away.
Boris looked up at his son and the detective.
“He said he wanted to talk to Konstantin,” Boris said, looking at Rostnikov. “I could see in his eyes that he knew, just as I saw in your eyes that you knew. It was the way he said it. I was certain.”
Rostnikov sat in a chair and motioned to Tsimion to do the same.
“Where are the women, the child?” asked Rostnikov.
“Where? I don’t know. I think they are in my bedroom.”
“Did they see? …” asked Rostnikov.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” said Boris.
“My son says they did not.”
“Good,” said Boris.
“I think it would be a good idea for your son to go to them, comfort them, explain that our friend on the floor was here for bad reasons, but that everything will now be fine.”
Tsimion rose, nodded in understanding, and put his hand on his fathers shoulder. Boris put his hand on top of his son’s. And then Tsimion moved toward the bedrooms.
“Money is tight for our government security services,” said Rostnikov. “That umbrella has an ejection button. By pressing it … it is on the handle … by pressing the button, a very thin needle with a very lethal dose of poison pops out. Death is swift and looks like a stroke or a heart attack to all but the best pathologists. It is an effective but rather old means of murder. The Bulgarians used it a great deal. Too much. There are far better ways, but they cost more. And I think our dead Primazon preferred this method. Are you following me, Boris Vladovka?”
“Yes,” he answered, staring at the dead man. “I’ve never killed before.”
“I, on six occasions, have killed,” said Rostnikov. “It was, I believe, necessary in all six of those instances. At least it is what I have told myself. Four of those killed were Nazis during the war.”
“You are too young to have been a soldier,” Boris said.
“I was a boy soldier. There were many of us, some barely ten, some even younger. My leg was injured during the war.”
“You said four Nazis. The other two, the ones you killed?”
“I am a policeman. It happens. I am not proud of what I did, but it was necessary, and like you, Vladovka, I killed one of them with my hands. I believed I had to kill to protect myself and a very small child.”
Boris nodded and said, “And I must kill again. Yes, I must kill you and your son and Laminski and continue to kill every time someone comes to take my son or kill him.”
“I too have but one son, Boris,” said Rostnikov with a sigh. “I am afraid I would have to stop you. Besides, I think there is a better way. Killing us would certainly bring many more policemen here.”
“I see no other way,” said Boris.
“All right, let’s begin with your killing me. If you fail, we will talk about other, more sensible, ways of handling this situation.”
Boris rose from his chair, as did Porfiry Petrovich.
“You want me to kill you?”
“You have to start with someone. Come.”
Boris looked a bit dazed as he moved toward the policeman. Yes, he thought, if I am to protect Tsimion, I must start somewhere.
Vladovka was larger across and certainly taller than Rostnikov, and he had the power of a farmer who had labored all of his life. He reached out for the thick neck of the policeman. Rostnikov grabbed the farmer’s wrists. Boris Vladovka struggled to free himself as his son had only minutes before in the potato field. Boris pushed forward. Both men tripped over the corpse and fell to the floor. Still, Rostnikov held fast. They rolled away from the dead man over the umbrella and into the wall.
Their faces were inches apart. Rostnikov could smell coffee and the bile of fear on the other man’s breath.
“Now we try my way,” Rostnikov said gently as he held the larger man by his shoulders.
“We try your way,” Boris agreed.
“When we get up, rise carefully,” said Rostnikov. “Our dead friend pressed his umbrella button before he died. I think he meant to use it on you when he realized that you were going to kill him.”
Rostnikov let the bigger man free, and Boris moved to his knees.
“Then I would have been the one to die,” the farmer said with resignation.
“If he had used his weapon,” said Rostnikov, trying to sit up, “you would have been dead almost instantly. I would appreciate it if you would help me up. It is difficult …”
“You, oh, of course, I’m sorry.”
Boris stood and held out a hand. Rostnikov took it and with the farmer’s help got to his feet.
“You are very strong,” said Boris, stepping over the dead man and returning to his chair. “Would you like coffee?”
“Coffee,” said Rostnikov, moving back to his chair.
“It is still very warm, but not hot … Shall I? …”
“No, warm will be fine.”
“Sugar? Milk?”
“Sugar, not too much. If your coffee is strong or bitter, a little milk would be nice.”
Boris nodded, filled a brown mug, dropped in a sugar cube, and went to the refrigerator for the milk.
While he finished preparing the mug of coffee, Rostnikov leaned over, picked up the umbrella, found the button, pressed it, and watched the very thin needle slide noiselessly back into its slot.
Boris brought two mugs to the table, handed one to Rostnikov and took the other.
“What,” asked Rostnikov, after taking a drink of the very strong and not very good coffee, “if our friend here were to be found tonight on a very dark street of a very bad neighborhood in St. Petersburg, beaten to death, neck broken, arm broken, many bruises, perhaps a broken rib, his money taken, his shoes taken, his watch taken, his umbrella taken, his clothes and dignity taken? What if his car were never found? The police would assume the car had been sold to what the Americans call a ‘chop shop.’ Unless the pathologist who examines the body realizes that he was dead before he was beaten, it will be assumed to be a routine mugging and murder. It is unlikely the pathologist, if one is even called in, will have that realization. Do you think our dead man might meet that fate?”
“Yes,” said Boris. “In my sixtieth year, I have become a murderer and will now commit further crimes by concealing that murder like … like a criminal in some French movie.”
“You have seen many French movies?” asked Rostnikov.
“Actually, no, and it has been many years since the last, but I have a good memory.”
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