Death of a Dissident

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I understand,” said Rostnikov, and indeed he did.

  “Good,” said Drozhkin, “yes, good. Now you are here in relation to the murder of Aleksander Granovsky. I assume you want some cooperation, ideas, eh?”

  “That would be most appreciated,” Rostnikov replied.

  “Yes, of course, we will do what we can, but it is you who must find this madman and find him quickly. It is best if we have no direct part in the investigation if at all possible. You understand?”

  “Fully,” replied Rostnikov.

  “Good, then what…?” said Drozhkin holding up his hands.

  “You were watching Granovsky,” Rostnikov plunged in, looking directly at the K.G.B. Colonel. “You had a man on him last night, a man who may be able to tell me something if I could talk to him.”

  Drozhkin’s wrinkled, worn face tightened, his jaw moved forward and Rostnikov knew that it would not be pleasant to be questioned by Colonel Drozhkin.

  “We were not there to protect him,” the colonel said, returning Rostnikov’s gaze.

  “Of course not,” Rostnikov said sincerely.

  “And we were not there to harm him,” the little colonel went on emphatically. “Nothing could look worse, would be worse than…Perhaps you wouldn’t understand. It would not be good, is not good for us that this happened.”

  “Then,” went on Rostnikov, “it would be best if I could talk to your man and get on with catching this murderer as quickly as possible. He has murdered a second time and may be about to do so again.”

  “I know,” sighed Drozhkin with a wave of his hand. “That is not my concern or interest. I don’t know if I can let you talk to the man you wish to speak to.” Drozhkin eyed Rostnikov, who did not answer and went on. “Is there something you have to say further to change my mind?”

  Rostnikov looked down at his hands and had the urge to ask this tense K.G.B. man to compare callouses and lives, but instead he said, “May I be frank?”

  A tick of a smile touched the older man’s face and hid again.

  “Is that ever wise?” he said, leaning back.

  Rostnikov shrugged and shifted his weight before responding. He did not really mean to be frank, and both men knew it.

  “I have a task, a murderer to catch and not much time to do it. Wisdom may have to be tempered with expediency. I think you planned to let me talk to your man from the moment I walked into this building or I would not be here.”

  Drozhkin stood up quickly, held a comment, and turned to speak to the wall.

  “It wasn’t wise, but I see your point,” he said.

  “Thank you, colonel.”

  The colonel turned, in control once more, looking down at the police officer.

  Drozhkin moved to one of the posters on the wall, his back still to his visitor, and straightened it, though it needed no straightening. The poster was of a hefty woman with a shovel, looking over her shoulder to urge on her fellows, who had no space in the picture.

  “I have your file, Inspector Rostnikov,” said the colonel, stepping back to assess the job he had done in lining up the poster.

  “Of course,” answered Rostnikov, realizing that any answer was treading dangerous ground.

  “For many reasons, you are lucky to have the job and responsibility which you have,” said the colonel, turning once more to face the policeman.

  “True of all of us who are fortunate enough to serve the state,” said Rostnikov folding his hands on his coat. The colonel’s remark could have meant many things from the black market weights to the fact that Rostnikov’s wife was Jewish, but the point was clear again.

  “Then we understand each other,” Drozhkin repeated.

  “Fully,” answered Rostnikov, wondering how long this would continue, whether the colonel would simply keep him here for days going in verbal circles. It was probably a habit of me old man’s, a habit of interrogation which he could not break.

  Drozhkin moved swiftly and silently across the brown carpet to his desk and picked up the phone.

  “Zhenya, get Khrapenko, send him to the interrogation room on one. Tell him he is to be interviewed by a police inspector and is to tell him everything he wants to know about last night. Yes, now.” He replaced the black phone firmly and looked at Rostnikov.

  “You are to confine your questions to last night and deal only with the particulars of your investigation,” said the colonel.

  It struck Rostnikov for the first time that the colonel himself must have someone above him to whom he would have to report, and the situation was perhaps as dangerous for the old man as it was for the police officer.

  “Of course,” said Rostnikov amiably. “In fact, I would like, if possible, to have the…”

  “Interview,” Drozhkin completed.

  “Yes,” Rostnikov went on, “the interview. I would like it recorded so that you can hear it.”

  “It will be,” said the colonel, sitting behind the desk and examining the policeman once again. “You knew it would be. Don’t play the fool.”

  Rostnikov shrugged.

  “Have you ever been to Kiev?” the colonel asked suddenly, and Rostnikov was bewildered for the first time since entering the room. He tried to protect himself from whatever it was that was coming.

  “My son is…”

  “1 know, I know that,” said the colonel with irritation, “I am not asking a political question.”

  “Once,” said Rostnikov, shifting uncomfortably, “I had to deliver a prisoner years ago.”

  “Did you see the interior of the Cathedral of St. Sofiya?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Decadent, yes,” sighed the colonel, “but beautiful. The chandeliers, the recreation of the byzantine. It is without meaning, the epitome of what could be accomplished by medieval princes, a reminder of the temptation of the impractical, a reminder that we must remain strong. I have gone to that church many times to feel the temptation to fight it, to emerge strong again. Do you have such a place, comrade inspector?”

  Rostnikov shrugged. “In my head, perhaps, like most Russians.”

  Drozhkin moved from behind the desk and motioned for Rostnikov to rise. He placed a hand on the policeman’s shoulder and guided him toward the door.

  “Return to that place now, inspector, and draw strength from it. Meet the challenge, or those with stronger wills will have to take your place.”

  “Of course,” sighed Rostnikov, “that is the strength of socialism. If one falls, you or I, there is someone right behind to take up the task.”

  A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, and the man who had led Rostnikov to the room stepped in.

  “Zhenya, take Inspector Rostnikov to the interrogation room. He is to be given fifteen minutes to talk to Khrapenko. Understood?”

  “Yes,” replied Zhenya.

  “And you, inspector,” the old man said in his heavy accent, “are to take no notes and make no reference to this interview in any trial that might take place without my direct permission.”

  “And in your absence?” Rostnikov asked innocently.

  “To whomever occupies this office. You walk dangerously, comrade,” Drozhkin said between clenched teeth.

  “I don’t mean to,” said Rostnikov. “I simply wish to get my job done.”

  “As do we all.” Drozhkin moved back to his desk, and Zhenya stepped into the hall with Rostnikov behind him. Rostnikov reached back to close the door, but the voice of the old man inside stopped him.

  “Now that we are friends,” Drozhkin said with a touch of irony that sent a chill through Rostnikov, “I think I can give you some confidential news. Your son’s brigade has been sent to Afghanistan. That is confidential information. I thought you would be proud and happy to know.”

  “Yes, I am, and I thank you for your thoughts and consideration, comrade,” Rostnikov managed to get out as he closed the door behind him.

  As he limped after the rapidly moving Zhenya, the news struck him like blows from
steel weight bars. Iosef was in a place where Russian soldiers were being killed. Visions of his own war, of death, of Rostov, sliced through Rostnikov, and fear for his son brought burning moisture to his armpits. But he also thought, at one level of consciousness, that Colonel Drozhkin had seemed overly concerned, responsible, and emotional; that he had invested a great deal in this case of Aleksander Granovsky. The colonel had said too much. True, he had provoked Rostnikov to intemperate statement, but he, himself, had been as guilty. Age, responsibility, concern over possible blame for Granovsky’s death or at least of negligence might account for it, but a K.G.B. man of Drozhkin’s age should surely have learned to control himself, to weather many crises.

  Zhenya stopped before a door and Rostnikov hurried to catch up.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Zhenya said.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Rostnikov agreed.

  The room was small and bare. Khrapenko, young and nervous-looking, was pacing the floor. He stopped as Rostnikov entered, tried to pull himself together and, before the policeman could speak, said, “I am Khrapenko.”

  And, thought a puzzled Rostnikov, you look very close to being a fool, which means there will be two of them in this room for fifteen minutes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THOUGH THERE ARE RULES AND regulations, restrictions and requirements, it is no easier in Moscow to find a killer or a saint than it is in New York, Tokyo, or Rome. If the world does not know this, the police do, and so they learn to value patience and good shoes.

  Sasha Tkach had begun his day and was putting his patience to practice.

  He was sitting in a small, surprisingly warm room drinking a cup of tea. He had lost the opportunity to remove his coat, and he had lost the initiative in the conversation when the man to whom he was speaking, Simon Lvov, had greeted him warmly, invited him in and offered him tea. Lvov was a tall man of seventy-five who stooped over slightly and smoked a pipe. His dark grey hair was unkempt, and perched on his huge nose were the glasses all too familiar to Russians, the standard dark, round frames like those of the American comedian Harold Lloyd. Tkach had been prepared for hostility, trickery, deception, but not for this warm man in a dark cardigan sweater who ushered him in and made him sit in a soft, ancient chair.

  “You are a young man,” Lvov said, simply, in reply to Tkach’s first question about Granovsky. It was clear that, from some source, Lvov had heard about Granovsky’s death. It was also clear that he was not in a state of deep mourning. According to the information Tkach had, this Lvov had been a scientist—an agronomist or something; he was one of Moscow’s leading dissidents and had worked closely with the murdered Granovsky. Yet for a scientist he was maddeningly indirect.

  Before long Tkach had completely lost control of the interview, and Lvov, sitting comfortably at a small table, leaned forward on his elbows and watched the puffs of smoke from his pipe while he told a parable.

  “Once there was a powerful warden in a prison in another country, let us call that country Peru, shall we?”

  “Yes,” agreed Tkach, sipping his tea and assuming he was watching the first of stages of the man’s senility. “Peru.”

  “Well,” Lvov continued, “a friend of mine had the misfortune to find himself in that prison, and one night the warden had my friend brought into a large room filled with guards and newspaper reporters. It was very late at night and my friend, in prison for counter-revolutionary activity, had been sleeping. He rubbed his eyes at the huge gathering and rubbed them again when he saw that the fat warden wore a rare smile under his great mustache. The warden ordered my friend to a table in the center of the room on which stood, or rather slumped, a black cloth bag. The conversation in the room stopped, and the warden cleared his throat.

  “ ‘An anmesty has been called for all political prisoners in honor of the one hundreth anniversary of liberation day,’ said the warden with a sweep of his hand. ‘However, since this prison contains only the worst and most dangerous elements, our president is reluctant to include you and your fellows. But our president is a fair man and in public display he has ordered me to give you an even chance to secure liberation for yourself and the others who plotted against the state. In that bag are two small white balls. On one ball is written “freedom” and on the other “prison.” You will, by virtue of your high rank in the counter-revolutionary conspiracy, place your hand in that bag and remove one of the balls. If the ball contains the word “freedom,” you all go free. If it contains the word “prison,” then you all remain. The press has been invited to prove that we abide by our word. Now take out a ball and let us see what your fate is.’

  “Do you see my friend’s dilemma, Officer…?”

  “Lvov, no, I…” said Tkach, suddenly needing very much to urinate.

  “My friend was no fool,” Lvov went on, examining the bowl of his pipe. “He knew that the fat warden with the great mustache hated him, and what better way to get rid of an enemy in prison than to make him the object of hatred of his fellow inmates? Surely, my friend knew, if he selected the ball marked ‘prison’ the other prisoners would hear of it, be told of it, and he knew there were those among the prisoners whose minds had been eroded by brutality and who might very well kill my friend for his ill luck and theirs. My friend pretended to still be sleepy as his mind worked rapidly. There is no chance of pulling the right ball, he thought. The warden would not look so confident with an even chance of losing his pets.

  “The truth was obvious to my friend. Both balls have the word ‘prison,’ and it made no difference which one he picked. No one would dare challenge the powerful warden by asking to see the remaining ball, least of all my friend, who knew that any effort to do so would surely result in his own death. But remember, my friend was a clever man and he made up his mind quickly.

  “He strode to the table, plunged his hand into the bag, grabbed a ball, and without looking at it, threw it into his mouth and swallowed it in one gulp, almost choking. A gasp rose from the crowd, and the warden reached for his pistol.

  “ ‘What are you trying to do?’ shouted the purple-faced little man. ‘Nothing,’ answered my friend innocently, pretending a combination of stupidity and drowsiness. ‘I thought I was supposed to eat it. Anyway, there is no harm done. All you have to do is see which ball remains in the bag and the one I ate is, by elimination, the other one.’ More tea Inspector Tkach?”

  “Officer Tkach,” Tkach corrected. “No thank you, but if…”

  “Well,” continued Lvov, examining the bowl of his pipe, “A sharp-featured young reporter standing near my friend shouted, ‘Ridiculous. Ridiculous, but true.’ A murmur of approval ran through the reporters, who were anxious to discover the fate of the prisoners. The warden, teeth clenched and eyes magnificent with hatred fixed on my friend, dumped the ball onto the table and it bounced, bounced, bounced toward the sharp-featured young reporter who snatched it and read it.

  “ ‘Freedom,’ said the reporter handing the ball to the warden. ‘This ball says “freedom.” He swallowed the ball that said “prison.” ’ In seconds the room was clear, and my friend was surrounded by guards and faced by the evil warden. Several weeks later my friend was found dead; someone had stabbed him with a—”

  “Sickle,” Tkach supplied.

  Lvov pointed his pipe at the young detective and nodded, pushing his glasses back. “Yes, I think it was something like that. No one ever discovered whether he had been killed by guards or prisoners.”

  Lvov rose and stretched, trying to straighten up, but was refused that pleasure by his body.

  “Outsmarted himself,” said Tkach.

  “No, oh no,” Lvov said with a pained grin. “Not at all. He had been absolutely correct. Both balls had ‘prison’ marked on them. The sharp-featured reporter had used the opportunity to do a good turn for the powerful warden, who rewarded the reporter years later by having him imprisoned on some false charge. Then the young reporter told the truth, but it was too late to do my friend any good, and since th
e warden denied it, it did no good for the reporter or the remaining prisoners.

  “That is indeed a sad tale,” said Tkach, finishing his tea and forcing himself out of the comfortable chair. “Am I to gather from it that you will not cooperate in my investigation?”

  Lvov shrugged. “I’d be happy to cooperate. I will cooperate, but I am afraid there is nothing I can tell you. Nothing that would do Granovsky or me or you any good, nothing that would help, you see?”

  “Help who?” said Tkach.

  “Who are we trying to help?” Lvov countered.

  “If you could answer me with an answer instead of a question or an evasion,” Tkach answered irritably, “I could—”

  “All right,” Lvov answered, suddenly dropping his whimsy. “Who would it help?”

  Tkach was confused. The answer seemed so obvious.

  “We want to find the person who murdered Aleksander Granovsky,” he answered reasonably. “Don’t you?”

  “That depends on who you find, doesn’t it?”

  “Whoever it is…” Tkach began.

  “If it is some poor madman, some enemy, will that bring Granovsky back?”

  “More questions,” sighed Tkach.

  “Yes, and more. If it is the K.G.B., will they be tried?”

  “I don’t see…”

  “That is right,” sighed Lvov enormously, “you do not see. I have no answers for you, young man, only questions and parables. I’ll tell you but one thing. Aleksander Granovsky was a perfect icon, a man who enjoyed the prospect of martyrdom and who enjoyed exercising power. He had few friends and many enemies. To know him was to dislike him. The government knew and feared him. The same was true of those who simply met him waiting in lines for tea. Moscow is your suspect. You have interviewed one. You have but six or seven million left. I bid you good luck and good day.”

  Tkach’s confusion was enormous, as was the call of his bladder. No one had ever spoken to him like this. Everyone feared the police.