Death of a Dissident ir-1

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “But necessary,” replied Tkach, moving forward.

  An hour later they found the farmhouse where Malenko and the girl had stopped and they found the reluctant farmer.

  “I’ll talk,” Tkach whispered to Zelach as they approached the man who stood in the door, axe in hand.

  “Comrade,” shouted Tkach, letting a sob enter his voice. “We are looking for my little sister. She was taken by force by a man she doesn’t want to marry. We have reason to believe he brought her this way.”

  “Go to the police,” the farmer said, fingering his axe.

  “The police,” cried Tkach. “I want nothing to do with the police. This is a private matter, a matter of honor.”

  “The police are trouble,” agreed the farmer looking suspiciously at Zelach.

  “My brother,” Tkach explained.

  The man nodded.

  “The man looked a bad sort,” the farmer said. “Girl did look frightened. He asked me how to get to a village near here. Come in. I’ll tell you where he went.”

  “Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki,” sighed Rostnikov, “you are an outstanding driver. I applaud your skill under difficult conditions, but we can do the girl no good if we do not arrive at our destination.”

  The police Volga had careened down the highways and back roads into the late afternoon. On one occasion the car had come very near overturning on a skid. On another occasion, a remarkably fat woman had to leap off the road in front of the car with a dexterity that made Rostnikov blink with wonder.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” Dolguruki said, keeping his eyes on the road, “but I thought you told me to hurry.”

  “Hurry, hurry,” sighed Rostnikov, waving his hand in the air.

  Rostnikov was worried about the girl, true, but he was also worried about how he might explain the destruction of the automobile. His body and that of the driver could be repaired by doctors. Doctors in Moscow were good and there would be no cost. But to repair an automobile. Ah, thought, Rostnikov, that may be much more difficult.

  With that thought, another car joined them on the narrow road and slid in front of them. Rostnikov’s driver hit his brakes and went into a skid that appeared certain to result in crash into the second car. Rostnikov sucked in his breath, braced himself with his good leg, and gripped the door handle. The second car had stalled in front of them, and slow motion took over Rostnikov’s consciousness. His car moved as if through water. The movement took the length of a war and the time of a sneeze, but ended without a collision.

  Rostnikov and his driver leaped out to confront the other car’s occupants. There was no more than an inch or two between the cars.

  “Tkach!” Rostnikov shouted, watching his breath form a cloud.

  “Inspector!” shouted Tkach back as he stepped out of his car. Behind the young detective, Rostnikov could see the outline of Zelach. “We know the village where Malenko has taken the girl.”

  “And you think I am just riding around out here to witness the magnificent efforts of farmers preparing their futures?” sighed the inspector.

  “No, I-” began Tkach.

  “Never mind,” Rostnikov interrupted. “Let’s turn your car and get it going in the right direction. “Zelach,” he shouted, “get behind the wheel. We’ll push.”

  Rostnikov, Tkach, and the driver pushed the car as Zelach gently started the engine. Its rear was firmly locked in a bank of snow blocking the road.

  “Out of the way,” Rostnikov shouted, pushing Tkach and Dolguruki. You, Zelach, out of the car.”

  “You have an idea, Inspector?”

  “I have a challenge,” Rostnikov grinned, but it was a grin without joy. Zelach scampered out of the car and joined them in the road. Far off the road was a house with a chimney puffing little clouds of grey smoke. Somewhere in the distance across the reaches of snow a cow bellowed, and on the road Rostnikov moved to the rear of the stalled car. He took off his gloves, rubbed his hands on his coat, concentrated, took three deep breaths, held the last and put his hands under the bumper. With knees bent and back straight, he began to lift, his face turning red with the effort, a dry chill freezing moisture on his nose. He imagined the extra weights he had been unable to purchase. He imagined himself at the park championships lifting for the first place medal, he imagined himself at the Olympic games breaking a world record, and he rose. He could feel the pressure in his groin and knew his bad leg was wobbling dangerously, but he rose. The rear of the car came up and he pushed forward, letting it go. The car bounced twice and rested free of the snow bank. Rostnikov gasped for air and tried to speak to cap his moment, but it was difficult to get the words out. Instead, he slumped forward and put one hand against the now free car and pulled in short gulps.

  “Don’t…stand…Let’s get going.” He waved his hand violently at the three men who watched him. Dolguruki, the driver, was the first to respond. He hurried to his car. Tkach and Zelach moved quickly into their car, and Rostnikov stood up to allow them to pull away. As they started up the road, Rostnikov shuffled back to his Volga and got in the front next to Dolguruki.

  “You are deceptively strong, Inspector,” said the driver starting the car. The car in front of them was clearly in sight.

  “Is that a compliment?” asked Rostnikov, damning himself for being unable to catch his breath.

  “Of course,” said the driver.

  Rostnikov shrugged.

  Fifteen minutes later, both cars pulled into the village of Svenilaslav. The village itself was only slightly larger than a small farm and consisted of one two-story village store, a government grain trading center and a small brick one-story building that served as the village center.

  Inside the brick building, Andrei Froskerov, who had recently celebrated his eighty-first birthday, was trying to decide if he was going to steal one of the chairs from the meeting room. He had stolen one a year earlier and sold it ten miles away to an engineer, but Comrade Scort had looked at him suspiciously for months. Not having been caught had given Andrei Forskerov courage. Besides, the engineer had told him that he could use a matching chair. He might even pay a few hundred kopecks. Froskerov was alone in the building, as he often was. His task was to keep it clean, which he did, and to protect village property, which he did not do.

  He had definitely decided to take the chair and had one hand on it when the three men burst into the room. One was a burly man with a limp and the other two were young, determined-looking men.

  “I wasn’t taking it,” cried Froskerov, recognizing policemen when he saw them. “I was cleaning it.”

  “Cleaning it?” asked Tkach.

  “Yes,” said Froskerov, whipping a ragged cloth from his pocket and attacking the upholstered chair.

  “That’s nice,” Rostnikov said softly. “You may continue to do that, old father, but we must know-”

  “I’ve never taken anything from the village, from my country!” cried Froskerov as he vigorously worked at the material with his cloth. “I’d rather die, here on the spot: May God strike me down. Wait, there is no God anymore. Forgive me, I’m an old man, but I’m a good worker.”

  Tkach looked at Zelach who looked at Rostnikov who spoke softly.

  “Malenko.”

  “Malenko,” agreed the old man.

  “You remember Malenko?” Rostnikov went on. “You were in this village when he was a farmer.”

  “Ha,” shouted the quivering old man. “I have always lived here. I’ve been here all my life except for the war. The Germans got me. I was a prisoner in some place in Poland. I have a scar.”

  With this he threw his cloth on the table and lifted his shirt to reveal a ridged scar that went from his navel to his scrawny rib cage.

  “You are a hero of the state,” said Rostnikov. “Malenko.”

  “I knew him,” said the old man, tucking his shirt in.

  “Where was his farm? Where is it? Who lives on it?”

  “It is not his farm,” said Froskerov. “It went to the coll
ective and then Max Rodnini. I didn’t think he should get it,” the old man whispered loudly. “He’s really a Hungarian, but no one asked me then and no one asks me now, and I am not one to give my advice to those who do not want it. Eighty years of experience should count for something.”

  “He could be killing the girl right now,” Tkach whispered frantically.

  Rostnikov put up a hand to quiet the detective.

  “Killing? Who?” Froskerov said looking into the three faces in panic. “Rodnini, the Hungarian? I knew he’d kill that wife of his some day. I saw her hit him once with-”

  “Father,” Rostnikov tried again. “You must tell us now, right now, how to get to Rodnini’s farm. You must tell us and we will go, or I must ask you what you were taking from here when we came in.”

  “Taking, taking?” laughed the old man. “Me taking? Ha. Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Rodnini. Now,” demanded Rostnikov.

  “Down the road, to the right, second farm, the one with the broken truck in the driveway.”

  “Thank you, old father,” Rostnikov said, turning.

  Froskerov looked puzzled.

  “Are they rounding up Hungarians?” he asked, but he got no answer. The three policemen were out of the door. He thought he should inform someone about this curious visit but could think of no one to tell. The members of the village council were on their farms except for storekeeper Putsko, who was in Moscow picking up supplies. He would tell Putsko when he returned, if he could remember all of what had happened. He sat heavily in the chair that he had planned to steal and began working out the story of how Rodnini had murdered his wife and been carted away by three policemen who were rounding up Hungarians for a purge. Under the circumstances, he certainly could not steal the chair, at least not for another few days.

  The sun was behind the cloud cover on its way down when the two cars stopped. They were several hundred yards from the farm and could clearly see the wreck of a truck in the driveway. The truck was a model Rostnikov had been taught to drive when he had been in the army, but he had never had the opportunity to get behind the wheel.

  The meeting in the road was chilled by a rising wind across the fields that sent swirls of loose snow dancing on the packed, unbroken surface.

  The two junior inspectors and the driver looked at Rostnikov, who was tempted to ask what they thought should be done. He could see by their faces, however, that they expected their superior, who could lift automobiles, to come up with a plan. Rostnikov had none.

  “He is certainly here by now if he is coming,” he said, stalling.

  Tkach nodded in agreement.

  “If we go driving up to the farm, he could see us and kill the girl and the Rodninis,” he went on.

  “So,” sighed Rostnikov. “We can’t simply sit here either. I will walk to the house. Malenko has never seen me. Perhaps he will take me for a neighbor. We can’t get too close or he will recognize the police cars. I’ll walk from here. Make a bundle out of things in the trunk, a light bundle but a big one. Maybe he will take me for a neighbor or a peddler.”

  Dolguruki hurried to open the trunk of the car and prepare a bundle.

  “If either of you has another idea…” he began, thinking that his own plan was, at best adequate, at worst stupid. Neither detective had an idea.

  “I think I should go with you,” ventured Tkach.

  Rostnikov looked at him evenly.

  “He has seen you,” Rostnikov reminded him.

  “I’d cover my face.”

  Doguruki returned with a heavy blanket tied with rope and folded over. Rostnikov took it and hoisted it to his shoulder.

  “Give me half an hour, no more. If you do not see me or hear from me by then, I want the three of you to make your way across the field behind the house and use your judgment. You understand, Sasha?”

  “I understand, Inspector.”

  “Good,” said Rostnikov. “Now, we shall see.”

  With that he started down the road. The bundle was light, and Rostnikov welcomed its rough warmth against his face. He tried to think of a plan, but no plan came to mind. He would simply do what had to be done. There was not even any point in hoping for the safety of the girl. She was either alive or dead. Rostnikov’s interest turned to Ilyusha Malenko. He had come to know the young man superficially in the last two days and wanted a direct contact-a look at the eyes, the body, the movement, a sense of the smell and feel of the man-to understand his madness. The walk was deliberately slow. He did not want to appear in a hurry. Slow, slow. A neighbor returning a tool. He tried to whistle but his mouth was dry, and the vision of Karpo raced across his consciousness.

  The farm was small, a two-story wooden house with a barn about thirty yards behind it. The path to the house was not shoveled, but someone had come up it. Rostnikov could not make out if the footprints were of two people.

  By the time he got to the front door, his heart was beating furiously, and his leg needed a long massage. He tried to force the whistle out, but nothing came, so he knocked.

  “Comrade Rodnini,” he shouted in what he hoped was a friendly neighbor’s tone. “It is I, Porfiry.”

  There was no answer. Rostnikov set down his bundle and knocked again, but still there was no answer. Then he tried the door and it was unlocked. He went in.

  “Rodnini?” he said with a smile on his face.

  There were no lights in the house. The room into which he stepped was a large combination dining room, kitchen, and living room. A large rough-hewn grey rug was on the floor. An old sofa stood in one corner and a heavy table beside it. On the walls were farm tools.

  Malenko had clearly been here. Furniture was broken. A window above the dining table was out, and the wind sprinkled the room with drifting snow and sent the sun-bleached curtains billowing into the room.

  There was no blood, but neither was there any sign of life.

  “Rodnini?” he shouted, and above him Rostnikov heard a sound of someone or something. He moved to the narrow stairs and looked up into the darkness.

  “It is I, Porfiry,” he said. “Did you and mamalushka have another quarrel?” He laughed as he moved up the stairs, slowly trying to pick form out of shadow. At the top of the stairs, he braced himself for an attack. None came and he looked around. There were only two rooms, neither of which had doors. The sound came from the larger of the two rooms, a bedroom. Rostnikov stepped in and looked around without moving, as his eyes adjusted. The sound came from behind a door across the small room. Rostnikov moved to it, took the handle and pulled, his free hand and arm ready to ward off an attack, but again no attack came. On the floor lay two human figures. Rostnikov kneeled and pulled them out into the bedroom. Both were bound and gagged, and the man was looking around wildly with amazingly blue eyes. The woman’s eyes were closed and a dark gash bubbled blood from her scalp. Both were in their sixties, heavy and small. Rostnikov pulled the gag from the man’s mouth.

  “Where is he?” Rostnikov asked softly.

  The man coughed and gagged.

  “He broke in…began breaking things. My wife tried to stop him. It was so fast. He hit her in the head and me in the stomach. He is mad, crazy.”

  “I know,” Rostnikov soothed. “But where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know,” cried the man. Then he looked at the still form of his wife. “Is she dead?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Rostnikov, moving to the woman.

  “Oh,” wailed the man, but Rostnikov couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.

  “Go out on the road,” Rostnikov ordered, “toward town. There are two cars and some men. We are the police. Tell them to come and get your wife. You understand?”

  “Yes,” said the man, standing on weak legs. He looked back at his wife and stood transfixed.

  “Go,” ordered Rostnikov and the man fled down the stairs. Rostnikov checked the woman’s eyes and listened to her breathing. He couldn’t tell if the labored sound w
as from asthma or trauma. He put her on the bed and went to the window to see if he could see Tkach from the farm. He could and he could see the farmer Rodnini hurrying through the snow to the road, slipping and falling in his haste. Rostnikov could also see two clear sets of footprints leading from the house to the barn. He squinted out the window with his head cocked to see if he could see footsteps leading away from the barn, but there were none.

  Rostnikov went down the stairs and out the front door into the snow. There could be no more surprise, no tricks, and so there was no great reason to move slowly, but then again his body and leg did not encourage rapid movement. Yes, the footprints were clear and fresh and not in his mind. He looked at the small barn but could see no face at the window. He moved to the door and opened it slowly.

  “Ilyusha,” he said firmly.

  Something stirred inside, and he heard a clear whimper. The barn was chilly but there was no wind breaking through.

  “Ilyusha Malenko, I know you are here,” he repeated, stepping in and seeing nothing but a cow in the corner, some small sheds, and a dozen chickens looking at him with curiosity.

  “Father?” came a young man’s voice from one of the sheds.

  “No,” replied Rostnikov, moving forward slowly.

  “Who is it?” demanded the voice.

  “My name is Rostnikov,” he said. “Porfiry Rostnikov. I am a policeman.”

  The shed was low, and Rostnikov stepped to where he could see over the rough wooden slat at the top.

  “Stop,” shouted Malenko, and Rostnikov stopped. Huddled in the corner of the shed on a bed of grain were two people, a whimpering young man with wild blond hair and frightened eyes who held a knife to a girl’s throat. The man wore heavy black pants and a workman’s shirt. The girl wore absolutely nothing.

  “I’ve stopped,” said Rostnikov. “I have a message from your father.”

  “He is good at having other people deliver his messages,” Malenko laughed.

  “If you don’t want it…” Rostnikov shrugged.