Death of a Dissident ir-1

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “What is it?” The knife touched the girl’s throat and she coughed.

  “The girl is very sick,” Rostnikov said. “Can we put my coat on her?”

  “My father’s message,” demanded Malenko, his eyes darting wildly to the window in search of more police.

  “He wants you to know that he will support you in your trial. That he is sorry for a great deal and finds it ironic that it should take events such as these to bring you together,” Rostnikov lied.

  “Too late,” said Malenko, shifting his weight slightly.

  “Why is it too late?” Rostnikov said taking another step forward. “Maybe the worst you’ll get with his help is ten years of buterskalia ichurmo, hard labor.”

  “Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop,” screamed Malenko scrambling to his knees, his knife constantly at the pulsing throat of the girl. His movement caused a slight, thin cut and the girl’s face distorted in fear. Rostnikov looked away and then back quickly.

  “I’ve stopped. Let us talk.”

  “No time for talk,” said Malenko. “There’ll be more of you soon and you’ll shoot me down. I know the police.”

  “We’ll not shoot you down,” Rostnikov said evenly. “And there is time for nothing but talk. You killed-”

  “Marie and Granovsky-her father,” Malenko said looking at the girl’s frightened face.

  “And the cab driver,” Rostnikov added.

  “He didn’t count,” said Malenko.

  Rostnikov shrugged.

  “We can debate that another time,” he went on. “But what do you want with the girl? Why do you want to harm her?”

  “You don’t understand,” Malenko cried in despair at the policeman’s ignorance. “I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to do with her what her father did with my wife. Then…”

  “What was that?” Rostnikov asked, thinking only of keeping the drama at the level of conversation as he tried to inch his way forward.

  “You know. You know. She knows. He was supposed to be my friend. She…You know what they did behind my back. He was in my bed. They laughed at me. Now they are dead, and I will laugh at them.” He did, indeed, laugh.

  “That is not the happiest laugh I have heard,” commented Rostnikov.

  “That’s because there is no joy in it,” the young man sobbed.

  “It is a laugh we Russians have known for a thousand years,” said Rostnikov.

  “And the girl?”

  “Her father is going to kill her after I finish. No, I am not mad, or perhaps I am. He will kill her by the chain of events he started when he and Marie…”

  “But he will never know,” interrupted Rostnikov. “He is dead, unless you believe in some religion of spirits or souls.”

  “I don’t care if he knows, don’t you see,” explained Malenko, taking the knife briefly from the girl’s throat to point it at himself. “I know. That is enough. That is all that counts.”

  “I see,” nodded Rostnikov. “I shall watch with curiosity. You plan to rape this sick girl and then kill her, all with one hand. For surely, if you put down the knife, you will have to contend with me.”

  “I’ll manage,” he said. “I’ll manage, and if I can’t, I’ll simply kill her.”

  “You didn’t manage so well with her mother,” Rostnikov whispered. “Is that a general problem you have, Ilyusha?”

  “You want me to kill her? Is that what you want? Is that why you taunt me? Are you crazy, policeman? Will it simply be easier to kill me once I kill her? Do you just want to get this over so you can get back to your dinner?”

  “Many questions, Ilyusha,” he said. “I don’t want you to kill her. I want to take her to a hospital. Look at what you have done to her, and she was not in conspiracy with her father to harm you. I know you are mad, but even within your madness you should be able to recognize logic when you hear it.”

  “I used to live here,” Malenko shouted, putting the knife to the young girl’s stomach. His eyes moved around the barn. “I used to sleep in this barn with my brother when I was young, and we used to talk and watch the room grow…and I told him stories.”

  “You brother died when he was an infant. Your mother killed him,” Rostnikov said.

  “You are a fool, policeman,” screamed Malenko. “Don’t they train you to humor people like me, not to provoke them?”

  “Ilyusha, may I lean on the railing? I have a very bad leg from the war and I cannot stand like this for long.”

  Malenko looked confused and Rostnikov ambled slowly another step and leaned on the rail four or five feet from the two figures. The girl was shivering with fever and fear.

  “Thank you,” sighed Rostnikov. “You were saying?”

  “Don’t provoke me.”

  “I won’t.” Rostnikov held up his right hand. “I don’t want to provoke you. I am just a weary cripple who would like to understand a situation which has gotten far away from him. Can I ask you a question?”

  “A question?” Malenko tried to pull himself and the girl further into the corner of the shed. The grain shifted under them, and the sound made the chickens behind Rostnikov scurry with excitement.

  “How did you find out about your wife and Granovsky? Did you catch them?”

  Malenko’s head nodded, and his body shook with emotion. Rostnikov realized that he was on the verge of action or breaking.

  “He told me.”

  “Granovsky told you?”

  “No, a man, a friend, a member…a friend.”

  Rostnikov shook his head in disbelief.

  “No, no one told you. You’re starting to tell lies again. You had no evidence for what you did.”

  “He told me,” Malenko insisted pointing the knife at the policeman. “Fero Dolonick told me. He saw them. He had a photograph. He showed me.”

  Rostnikov scratched his head and tried not to look at the frightened face of the girl.

  “He had photographs of your wife and Granovsky? Did you ask him how he got them?”

  “I didn’t care. He had them. It was true. Aleksander came to see her the day I killed him. I waited. I saw him go in. I saw. No more talk. No more pain.”

  Malenko’s eyes were filled with moisture, and his free hand went up to cover his ears.

  “May I make a practical suggestion?” Rostnikov said, leaning forward.

  Malenko wiped his sleeve across his eyes. The cow mooed behind them.

  “I suggest,” said Rostnikov, “that before you attempt to get your clothes off and rape the girl that you put me out of the way. It will make your task much easier.”

  “This is a trick,” smiled Malenko, his eyes going to the window and door.

  “Of course,” agreed Rostnikov, “but not a very promising one on my part. I am tired, unable to move, unarmed, slow. You are young and, I understand, a madman has enormous strength. You seem quite mad to me. Consider it, Ilyusha. Or better yet, consider simply giving up. You have done enough. You have won your victory.”

  Malenko seemed to be considering the choices. He pursed his lips and got to his knees.

  “And you young Natasha, what do you think?” Malenko said to the girl who had followed none of the conversation. “Perhaps I won’t kill you. Perhaps, to have you will be enough. I’ll-”

  He turned and leaped at Rostnikov with the knife before him. Rostnikov had been ready, but had not anticipated the speed of movement from Malenko. The knife blade scraped along the top of his skull, opening a long thin cut and sending Rostnikov sprawling backward onto an unwitting chicken which was crushed beneath his body. Malenko came over the top of the shed, and Rostnikov brought up his good leg to kick at the young man. The kick caught Malenko’s shoulder and sent him sprawling across the barn into the legs of the frightened cow. Chickens went wild, and Rostnikov tried to rise. His own blood blinded him, and Malenko was on him again.

  Rostnikov caught the hand with the knife and pushed it back. The young man grunted and struggled and threw his knee toward Rostnikov’s groin, but the po
liceman turned sideways, taking the knee against his thigh. Rostnikov grabbed for the young man’s leg and caught it at the thigh. With one hand gripping the arm with the knife and the other squeezing into the young man’s shoulder, Rostnikov lifted. Malenko weighed at least one hundred fifty-five pounds, a simple bench press with a dead weight, a bit difficult with living, unevenly distributed weight. With a tensing of his shoulders Rostnikov prepared to throw Malenko into the shed door and end the battle.

  Then something exploded in the room. For an instant Rostnikov thought that the wound to his head had been more severe than he had sensed, that he must be suffering some kind of hemorrhage, but the sound cleared and Malenko’s body went limp. Still holding the limp form over his head, Rostnikov tried to see through his own blood and had only the image of Malenko wearing a red mask. He dropped the body and rolled over.

  “Are you all right?” came a voice. Rostnikov wiped his face with his sleeve and turned toward the barn door, where he could see a man in a policeman’s uniform. It was Dolguruki, the driver. A gun was in his hand.

  “I am all right,” said Rostnikov, struggling to his knees. “You did not have to kill him.”

  “He had a knife,” said Dolguruki, stepping toward the body. A crowd of chickens followed him.

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov, pulling himself up and removing his coat.

  He looked over the top of the shed at the girl, who cowered back when she saw his bloody face.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch. You are all right now. We’ll get you to a hospital.” He handed her his coat and she grabbed for it and hugged it to her thin body.

  “He’s dead,” said Dolguruki, kneeling at the body.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Rostnikov, opening the shed to help the girl.

  Tkach and Zelach ran into the barn, guns drawn, to take in the sight. Zelach’s eyes went from the body of Malenko to that of the crushed chicken. Tkach looked with horror at Rostnikov.

  “It’s a deep scratch,” Rostnikov explained, looking around for something to stop the bleeding as he lifted the girl in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her fever right through his coat.

  “Does it hurt?” said Tkach.

  “Only when I think,” replied Rostnikov, looking at Doguruki and the sprawled body of Ilyusha Malenko. “Only when I think. Now we must get her to a hospital.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Emil Karpo had a dream. In the dream, he was floating on his back, absolutely stiff, as if he had been hypnotized by a magician. He was quite comfortable and mildly surprised to see the magician hovering over him. He was even more surprised that the white turbaned magician looked exactly like Porfiry Rostnikov. Rostnikov looked as if he were deep in concentration to insure the success of his trick, and Karpo wanted to insure that the trick would indeed work.

  “What can I do?” Karpo mumbled in his dream.

  Rostnikov touched his arm, and Karpo started. It was not a dream. Rostnikov did hover over him in a turban. He also discovered that it was true that one had the illusion that one could feel an amputated limb. Karpo, had not logic stayed him, could have sworn that he felt Rostnikov touch his non-existent arm.

  “Turban?” Karpo mumbled dryly through the first sign of coming out of the anesthetic.

  Rostnikov touched the bandage and shook his head, no.

  “Wounded, stitches, twenty-seven,” he said. “We got Malenko. And there is a tale to tell. How are you feeling?”

  Karpo looked around the room. A man in the bed next to him looked away.

  “My arm,” he said.

  “Is still there,” said Rostnikov. “A surgeon with a cancelled operation decided to spend four hours on you, putting little pieces back together, rebuilding your bones with little leftover pieces. He is quite proud of what he has done. You will have a little difficulty with it, but you should be using it again in a matter of months. The doctor predicted six months. I told him it would be two.”

  “It will be one,” corrected Karpo in a whisper, feeling himself sink back into sleep.

  When he woke up again, there was no one in the room. He tried to move his injured arm but could not. He could, however, feel some tingling in his fingers. Minutes or an hour later, the man in the next bed returned. He said nothing to Karpo, and Karpo said nothing to him. The man, a bricklayer, tried not to look at the tall man beside him who never blinked, but it was an effort. After a while, the vision of Karpo proved too much for him, and the man made an excursion out of the room, almost bumping into Rostnikov and Tkach on the way.

  “You are awake,” observed Rostnikov. Karpo looked at him. Tkach nodded, and Karpo nodded back. The two visitors moved close to the bed. Something was clearly on their minds.

  “We have a problem, Emil, a problem indeed that the three of us must be aware of,” whispered Rostnikov.

  Karpo’s brow furrowed, and he turned his full attention to the inspector, whose turban had been replaced by a piece of white tape through a patch of shaved scalp.

  “I’ll give you the facts,” said Rostnikov sitting on the side of the bed. “You draw the conclusions. Before he died, Ilyusha Malenko said that he had been told by a friend named Dolonick that his wife and Granovsky were lovers. Dolonick had shown him a photograph of them, given him evidence. I attempted to find this Dolonick. He is a writer who has been friendly with several leading dissidents including Granovsky. He is now unfindable. I called the K.G.B. and left a message for Colonel Drozhkin to call me. Ten minutes later a call came that the colonel was not available. Five minutes after that, Procurator Timofeyeva called to order me to her office this evening and told me to talk to no one about this incident.”

  Karpo’s eyes remained fixed on Rostnikov’s face. Rostnikov reached up to touch his bandage to be sure it had not departed.

  “There is more,” said Rostnikov looking up at Tkach, who stood pale and listened. “Malenko was shot by a police officer named Dolguruki who was serving as my driver. He took over from another driver who was supposedly ill. I checked on the earlier driver. He was not ill. He had simply been transfered to other duties. I attempted to find Dolguruki but was told that he had been sent to Tbilisi on a special assignment. I did not question that it was unusual to send uniformed officers from Moscow on special assignment to Tbilisi. The conclusion?”

  “Yes,” said Karpo. “But I’m sure there was a reason, a good reason.”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Rostnikov, “a very good reason. The K.G.B. asks an agent posing as a dissident to find a way to get rid of Granovsky before his trial, before he can cause international embarrassment. The agent, Dolonick, knows about Granovsky’s affair with Marie Malenko. He also knows of Malenko’s instability and begins playing on it, prodding Malenko to act. To set the stage, Granovsky is allowed to be free and guarded only by one incompetent K.G.B. agent. Malenko kills Granovsky and we are called in to find Malenko and prove that the killing is totally nonpolitical. When Vonovich came up, the K.G.B. was quite satisfied to go with him and let Malenko go, but Malenko was out of control and had killed two more. And we refused to stop the pursuit of Malenko and kept tying it in to the Granovsky murder. And so the K.G.B. arranged for a man who would serve as my driver and be ready to get rid of Malenko as soon as he was found to avoid any talking about Dolonick, who had prodded Ilyusha Malenko to the killing.”

  “Perhaps it had to be that way,” said Karpo softly but firmly. “Granovsky’s import goes beyond such simple questions as right and wrong.”

  “You believe that?” Tkach said.

  “Yes,” said Karpo, but Rostnikov noticed the pause before the sick man’s answer, which Tkach did not catch and which Karpo would have covered had he been well.

  “In any case,” Rostnikov said, rising from the bed, “I thought you should know primarily because I must insure that no further inquiries are made. The case is closed. The murderer has been caught. Malenko killed his wife and kidnapped Natasha Granovsky. Vonovich, the drunken anti-revolutionary lout, killed Gra
novsky and the cab driver.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She is recovering,” sighed Rostnikov, touching his head again. “Her body is recovering well.”

  Rostnikov moved to the door with Tkach at his side.

  “Goodnight, Inspector Karpo,” said Rostnikov.

  “I will be at work in one month,” said Karpo.

  “I know,” said Rostnikov going out the door.

  Rostnikov and Tkach stopped at a Stolovaya for a bowl of soup. They said little and took the metro back to Petrovka.

  “And?” said Tkach when they returned to Rostnikov’s office, where the inspector gathered his notes for his meeting with Procurator Anna Timofeyeva.

  “And we go on working,” said Rostnikov. “Do you see a resemblance between the scar on my desk and the one on my head? Curious.”

  “Yes,” agreed Tkach. “Curious.”

  “Perhaps you and your wife would like to have dinner with my wife and me tomorrow night,” said Rostnikov, looking intently at the autopsy report on the cab driver and wondering if he should bring it with him to his meeting with Anna Timofeyeva.

  “Tomorrow, I…yes, I’m sure that would be fine.”

  “Nothing elaborate,” warned Rostnikov.

  “Thank you, comrade, we will be looking forward to it,” Tkach said with a small smile.

  “You did well, Sasha,” said Rostnikov.

  Before Tkach could consider an answer Rostnikov was gone. He could hear the older man’s limping footsteps on the outer office floor. Tkach rubbed his stubbly face. He would stop at a liquor store on the way for a bottle of wine. It would surely delay him, especially if there was a long line, but Tkach wanted to celebrate, or perhaps he wanted to hide from what had happened in the last days. He wasn’t at all sure which was which.

  I must be tired, he thought to himself, but he did not really think it was so.

  Anna Timofeyeva sat behind her desk, hands folded. This time she was not working on the stack of papers on her desk. This time her full attention was fixed on Porfiry Rostnikov, who hobbled in and nodded.

  “You look terrible, Porfiry,” she said.