"Katya Rashkovskaya," Rostnikov said, to pull himself away from the temptation of the image. "You tried to kill her."
"Of course," said Mazaraki through clenched teem, fighting off the last of the first shock of pain. "If I don't kill her, she will kill me."
"Kill you?" Rostnikov said as Mazaraki stood almost upright.
"Whose idea do you think all of this was?" Mazaraki said with a shake of his head. "I never thought about smuggling people, doing anything but some black marketing of a few radios from France. It was her idea when they joined the circus. She kept Pesknoko in line, Duznetzov. And then when Duznetzov weakened and said he could take no more she got me to threaten him. She decided that we had to get rid of Pesknoko. Then, only then, did I realize that she would have to kill me, have to get rid of me, or I might drag her down if I got caught. Don't you see? Don't you understand?"
"It makes" Rostnikov began.
But Mazaraki hulked forward and cut in, "I only tried to kill her to protect myself. You are a joke, policeman. You've done all this to protect the woman but she is the one you want. You are a joke but we can turn the joke. We can both get her and I can get you and your family into the West. You're thinking about it."
His voice was now a soothing whisper.
"I saw that look hi your eyes. I've seen it before in the eyes of black marketers, government bureaucrats, scientists, and even a KGB man. I can get you out, policeman. All you have to do is take my hand on it and it will cost you nothing, nothing at all."
Mazaraki's right hand was stretched out. Rostnikov for the first time stepped back, not wanting to touch or be touched by that hand, as if the touch would give him a disease of thought that he could not overcome, a disease he might welcome. Mazaraki stepped forward, leering now, and Rostnikov's good leg kicked the upturned light, sending out a crack of leather heel on metal, and with the crack Mazaraki stopped, a startled look on his face. He stopped, opened his mouth to speak, and whispered, "Nothing at…all."
And then the big man in red fell on his face. In the center of the back of the fallen man's red jacket Rostnikov could see an uneven wet pattern of an even darker red. Rostnikov looked up into the dark arena.
"Karya?" he said.
"Yes," came the woman's voice.
There really wasn't anything else to say. If he had been a younger man with a good leg, Rostnikov could have leaped over the lamp into the protection of darkness, but a leap was out of the question and a shuffling roll would be ludicrous and undignified. He felt the dull heat of the light directly behind his good leg. His weak leg could take no more man a pained instant of weight. He gave it that instant and kicked back at the light with his heel. The glass shattered and the bullet from the darkness hummed past him as he turned to his right and moved as quickly as he could into the darkness. She fired again. Three more shots. All three to Rostnikov's right. And then a pause. The body of Mazaraki lay silently. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the dead lamp, and a shuffling rush of footsteps came closer.
Something moved at the far reaches of the remaining light. He pressed himself against the wall behind him and waited for Katya Rashkovskaya to run across the ring, gun in hand, and find him. "Nichevo," he said to himself. If it were to be like this, then it would be like this.
She stepped into the light slowly, her hands at her side. She was dressed in white and, Rostnikov thought, looked quite darkly beautiful. And then someone appeared behind her and then someone else.
"Porfiry!" came Sarah's voice.
And into the light behind Katya Rashkovskaya stepped Sarah and Sasha Tkach. Sasha was holding a gun. Katya was empty-handed.
"I'm all right," Rostnikov said, stepping forward.
"I called," Sarah said, looking down at the dead man.
"I see," said Rostnikov, moving forward toward her.
Sasha pushed his unruly hair from his face and smiled at Rostnikov, who nodded. Katya didn't smile. She looked emotionlessly at Mazaraki's body and leaned over to pick up the red hat.
As Sarah put her head against his chest, Rostnikov wondered if he should wait till morning to retrieve the plumbing books he had loaned to Katya Rashkovskaya.
Deputy Procurator Khabolov was dreaming about Helsinki, which, even in his sleep, he found quite odd, for he had never been to Helsinki nor did he have any interest in going to Helsinki. He found himself walking the streets of Helsinki certain that he was getting lost, unable to retrace his steps because he did not know where he had begun, unable to ask anyone who passed him for directions because they all spoke to each other in a language that must have been Finnish. Suddenly, behind him, came a pounding noise. In his dream he turned as the noise came closer, became louder, more insistent. Fear pressed him against the brick wall of a building while he waited for the massive ball of iron that pounded toward him, would surely, suddenly, come around a corner to crush him. He looked for help at the Finns around him who did not stop but kept walking, smiling.
"Answer the door," one of the Finns said without moving his mouth, and Khabolov sat up in bed, awake, panting in fear. "The door," his wife repeated. "Someone's at the door."
Khabolov looked at his wife, who had turned her huge freckled back on him and was clutching a pillow to her head.
The knock came again. "Can you dream that people are speaking Finnish if you can't understand Finnish?" he asked.
"Answer the door," his wife replied, and Khabolov pushed back the covers, checked the buttons on his pajamas, smoothed down his hair with two hands, and looked at the clock on the dresser. Six o'clock in the morning. The knock came again, and he padded quickly out of the bedroom and toward the door. The knock came again.
"Who is it?" he called.
"Rostnikov" was the reply.
Khabolov checked himself in the mirror next to the door, didn't like what he saw, and shouted "One moment" as he hurried back to get the blue-and-white and too-warm-for-this-weather flannel robe in the closet. His wife said something half in sleep. He ignored her and closed the bedroom door on his way out.
When he opened the apartment door, Deputy Procurator Khabolov saw that Inspector Rostnikov was not alone. Tkach stood at his side, a bit pale, almost at attention.
"What is it?" Khabolov asked, assuming a terrible emergency. Rostnikov was not even working for the Procurator's Office any longer, and no inspector had ever visited, ever been invited to visit, Khabolov's apartment. Khabolov had no desire for anyone outside of his family and his few friends to see what he had accumulated in appliances and the minor luxuries that made life tolerable.
"May we come in for a moment, Comrade?" Rostnikov asked politely. Both were quite sober and serious, yet neither gave the impression that an emergency was in progress.
"I'd like to know…" Khabolov began and stopped when Rostnikov reached into his pocket and pulled out an oblong package wrapped in a brown paper bag. The object looked like a small book. Khabolov looked at both policemen sternly, discerned nothing, and took the package. He opened it and extracted something he recognized, a videotape.
"What is this?"
"A videotape," Rostnikov said.
Khabolov could see that it was a videotape. For a moment he thought he might still be dreaming. The scene made as much sense as his dream about Helsinki.
"We think," Rostnikov continued, "that you should look at it."
"Now?" Khabolov asked them.
"Now would be a very good time, or you could wait till later," said Rostnikov, letting his eyes focus beyond Khabolov on the interior of the room.
"What is it? Some murder evidence? Inspector Karpo included in his report on the apprehension of the prostitute killer that you had been instrumental in… It has nothing to do with that case?"
Rostnikov shook his head no, and Tkach remained at near-attention.
"I'm running out of patience," said Khabolov, bouncing the videotape in his hand as if it were growing warm. "Very well. Come in, but mark you, this had better be important."
Rostnikov and
Tkach entered the room, and Khabolov closed the door quietly behind them.
"Come and be quiet. My wife is sleeping in there."
Neither man had known Khabolov had a wife, but mat did not surprise or interest them as much as the brown carpeting on the floor. Not a rug in the center of the room, but real carpeting. Sasha Tkach wondered if the apartment had more than one bedroom.
Khabolov led them across the room to a sofa facing a television set with a video machine on a table next to it.
"Better be important," Khabolov warned, turning on his machines and inserting the tape. A static-filled image came on with a flamelike sound and Khabolov plopped on the sofa to watch. He did not invite the two policemen to sit. They stood and watched the screen.
"It had better be important," Khabolov said again. "Murder evidence or"
"Profiteering," Rostnikov supplied. "Black market, probably. We think it important enough to consider turning over to the KGB. We thought you might be the one to do it."
"I see," said Khabolov, and for an instant he thought he did see. These two wanted to get on his good side. They had stumbled onto something important and had brought it to him. Rostnikov wanted his job back. Tkach wanted some assurance about his security. In exchange they were giving him something he could turn over to the KGB. And then the static stopped and a picture came on the screen. It was a bit dark. The camera jiggled but the picture was clear. There was no mistaking the interior of the Gorgasali trailer. And there were the Gorgasali brothers. Someone said something on the tape. Khabolov couldn't make it out. And then a figure came through the trailer door and Kha bolov leaped up from the sofa. He was looking at himself. He plunged his hands into the pockets of the robe and came up with a handkerchief. He threw it at the nearby table and missed. Before the Khabolov hi the picture could speak, the Khabolov in the apartment reached over and snapped the television off. "You are playing a dangerous game, you two," Khabolov said, retrieving the tape from the machine and plunging it into his now-empty pocket. "You may keep that one," Rostnikov said. "We have another copy." "Blackmail? You are daring to blackmail me?" Khabolov said, looking at Tkach, who looked at Rostnikov.
"It would appear so," said Rostnikov.
"I'll go to the Chief Procurator, tell him it's a fake, tell him you two are in on this. If I lose my job, you lose yours. If I go to jail, you go. Especially you, Tkach. You were the one who made contact with those two."
Khabolov pointed to the blank television screen to indicate that it held the Gorgasali brothers.
"Perhaps so, perhaps not," Rostnikov said. "The Chief Procurator might believe you. He might not. It might be reasonable to hear our terms before you try to make threats." "I don't deal with blackmailers," Khabolov said defiantly, but there was no backbone in his defiance. As he spoke, he pulled the sash of the flannel robe tightly around his waist as if he were suddenly cold. "Then, perhaps, those are the only criminals with whom you do not deal," sighed Rostnikov. "Or at least have not dealt with till now." "Say what you have to say and then get out," Khabolov said, looking from one man to the other with his sternest glare. It seemed to have no effect. "I'll decide what to do with you."
"The terms are simple," said Rostnikov. "May I sit? My teg…" "Sit, sit, sit, sit," said Khabolov with irritation. Rostnikov moved to a straight-backed wooden chair against the wall and sat.
"Keep your video machine, the tapes you have," said Rostnikov. "Destroy all records of your dealings with the Gorgasali brothers and never visit them again. No investigation of them was made. Inspector Tkach did not visit them. He did not talk to you about them."
"I'm listening," said Khabolov.
"Good," said Rostnikov. "If Sasha Tkach is mentioned in a report or involved in any way with your dealings in this or any other illegal matter, the tape goes to the Chief Procurator."
"And for yourself, eh?" Khabolov asked, shaking his head. "You want to be transferred back to the Procurator's Office."
"No," said Rostnikov. "You haven't the power to grant such a transfer. The decision was made above you and I have no desire to return. But a request for permanent transfer of Inspectors Tkach and Karpo to MVD investigation under Colonel Snitkonoy may be coming through and we would appreciate your doing your utmost to see to it that it is approved."
"Tkach?" Khabolov snapped.
"I have nothing to add," said Sasha, meeting Khabolov's eyes.
The deputy procurator bounced once on his bare feet and decided that he could live with this. It would be better, under the circumstances, to get rid of Tkach and Karpo, two spies for Rostnikov. Maybe someday in some way he would be able to get the original tape. The terms were ridiculous. They could have had much more, but, Khabolov realized, that was precisely why Rostnikov had asked for no more. It would be very easy to grant this, easy and relatively painless.
'I'll mink about this and decide what to do with you two," he said sternly. "Now get out."
"Be quiet out there," his wife shouted from the bedroom. "I've got to get up in an hour."
"Yes, my krasee' v/iy, my beauty," Khabolov called, and then he turned to the two men.
Rostnikov stood and walked across the room on the silent carpet with Sasha close behind. Khabolov marched ahead of them to open the door. They exited and Khabolov closed the door quietly behind them without another word.
"I think" Sasha began, but Rostnikov put his finger to his lips to quiet him.
Sasha nodded in understanding and looked at the door. He was tempted to turn around and knock in the hope that Khabolov had his ear pressed to the other side. The two men walked to the stairway and did not speak till they were down the two flights and out onto Zubovsky Boulevard.
"We won," Tkach said softly.
"More or less," Rostnikov agreed with a shrug.
"He won't destroy the Gorgasali file," said Tkach.
"Would you?"
"No," Sasha agreed as they walked. The morning sky was quickly darkening, and rain had been predicted by both the radio and Sasha's mother earlier that morning.
"It gives him the feeling that he has a secret, something with which to hold us at bay," said Rostnikov. "He won't destroy you if it means destroying himself. And besides, in a few weeks, a month, someone might pay a visit some afternoon to the deputy procurator's office or his home and the file on the Gorgasalis might disappear."
Sasha looked at Rostnikov as if seeing a madman for the first time. He was grateful to the chief inspector but this was all very risky, very dangerous, and Rostnikov seemed so matter-of-fact.
At the metro station they parted, going in different directions. Sasha was about to say something, to thank the chief inspector, but Rostnikov slapped Tkach gently on the cheek, grinned warmly but sadly, and walked away.
Twenty minutes later Sasha Tkach was at Petrovka checking his assignment file and deciding where he would take his family that night to celebrate.
Rostnikov got to the meeting room almost half an hour early, but he did not beat the Gray Wolfhound, whose brown, bemedaled uniform clung to him without a single wrinkle as he stood examining something he had written on the blackboard for the morning meeting.
"Good morning, Comrade Colonel," Rostnikov said, taking his seat.
Colonel Snitkonoy turned, standing erect, hands behind his back, to face the early arrival. On the board behind him Rostnikov could read, written in white chalk, "Surprise, Strength, Strategy," the lesson for the day.
"Early?" the Wolfhound observed without consulting his watch.
"I have a request," said Rostnikov.
"A request," Snitkonoy repeated with a smile, as if he were prepared for whatever surprise, strength, and strategy Rostnikov might display.
"That you consider the possibility of requesting the transfer of two more investigators from the deputy procurator's office," explained Rostnikov.
"Your men?" Snitkonoy asked, beginning to see the ploy.
"In a sense, but only in a sense," agreed Rostnikov. "Two outstanding men who would contr
ibute greatly in their investigative skills to the success of your department."
"My staff size is limited by certain… considerations," the Wolfhound said with an eaglelike lifting of his perfect white-maned head.
The size of the staff was limited, Rostnikov knew, by the low esteem in which the Wolfhound was held. His staff was, simply, large enough to make it ceremonial.
"I have reason to believe that, because of certain considerations, the deputy procurator would be most cooperative in such a request," Rostnikov said, looking not at the Wolfhound but at the paper and pencil before him.
"An addition of two experienced investigators to my staff," Snitkonoy said, looking back at what he had written on the board. "I'll consider it."
Rostnikov reached for the pencil and began to draw.
His back still turned to the chief inspector, the Wolfhound said, "You had two messages waiting for you this morning. I have taken the liberty of placing them on the tray."
Rostnikov's eyes moved up from the pencil to the tray in the center of the table and found a single sheet of paper with a message neatly printed in the hand of one of the clerks. The time of receipt was early that morning, about the moment he and Tkach had entered Khabolov's apartment. The message read: "Major Zhenya called to inform you that Colonel Drozhkin died during the night. Major Zhenya requests that you come to Lubyanka this morning to discuss with him the unsatisfactory conclusion to the Mazaraki situation."
Rostnikov smiled and plunged the note into his pocket.
Back still turned, the Wolfhound said, "Trouble?"
"A bit," agreed Rostnikov.
The Wolfhound tapped the blackboard with the long piece of chalk in his hand. "Remember, surprise, strength, strategy."
"I'll bear that in mind," Rostnikov said, sketching something that looked like a book.
"I said there were two messages," Snitkonoy reminded him.
"Yes, Colonel."
"Your wife called and asked that one of the clerks tell you that your son will be home on leave in two days." With this Snitkonoy turned abruptly and faced the seated inspector, looking for a change in expression. Rostnikov satisfied him by putting down the pencil and letting the smile lose its sense of irony.
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