Perhaps, somehow, this was what had happened to Yuri Pon this morning, but he could never tell Nikolai or his mother or anyone. Then a horrible half image came to him, a half image of himself telling not only of this uncanny incident but of everything he thought and felt, telling all this to a gaunt man who looked like a dark priest.
Yuri blinked his eyes, put down the files, and adjusted his glasses before he felt strong enough to open his file. The name of the person who had checked it out this very morning was written in a tall, firm hand that kept the letters neat and within the lines: Emil Karpo. Yuri Pon knew the name. Karpo had checked the file out sixteen times in the past eight years, far more than any other investigator, though Karpo was not even the principal investigator on the case.
Perhaps, thought Yuri the file clerk, Yuri the killer of prostitutes, there is some new piece of evidence, but what could there be that was new? What could Karpo know?
Yuri knew who Karpo was, had seen him frequently, had seen his name on hundreds of files. Karpo the Vampire, that was what he had heard an investigator named Zelach call him. Yuri Pon tried not to think about the image of a vampire. He tried to force himself to review everything that was in the file. He had done it a thousand times and never had he been able to follow any trail that would lead to him. He had been too careful. Knowing how the investigators worked, he had avoided mistakes, controlled his emotions each time. He was proud of that, proud of that control.
Coincidence, just a coincidence. Karpo was reviewing files, randomly reviewing files. Yuri would check, see what other files the Vam—, no, what other files Inspector Karpo had recently pulled out. There was nothing to worry about, nothing. Yuri put his file and the others away and spent the next two hours before lunch neatly typing new file numbers into the computer for the cases that would come in. Thought almost disappeared as he typed, and when his watch told him that he could stop and eat he smiled. It was under control. And then as he sat at his desk and lifted the small round bread from the sack in the drawer, a horrible thought sickened him.
What, he thought, if Karpo knows? What if he knows and is playing a game with me? What if he was watching when the file was returned, is watching right now? Yuri turned quickly from this corner to that, down the row of files, toward the stairway leading up to the next level, to the ceiling where, perhaps, someone had planted a camera.
Yuri Pon couldn’t swallow. He was afraid he would choke. He clutched for the bottle of kvass in his sack, unscrewed it, and drank deeply, almost choking.
Madness, he thought. No one is watching me. No one. But that was not the problem. A new one had come. He was sure now. Absolutely sure that the feeling was back, that this very night it would begin again, that the memory of the prostitute in the restaurant would be with him, driving him mad until he dealt with it. Karpo couldn’t be watching him. No, but Yuri Pon would certainly be watching Emil Karpo. He finished the small bottle of kvass, let out a small burp, and wondered how he would get through the rest of the day.
The rain had almost stopped when Rostnikov arrived and stood across the street in front of the building to which he had been ordered. The four-story building had no sign on its door to mark its function or purpose. It looked like a small factory, perhaps a complex of offices. There were eleven windows on the street side, each covered so that no one could see in. The concrete facade was smooth, gray, and very common. If one stood across the street where Rostnikov then stood one could see on the roof of the third floor a patio and a series of canopies that looked as if they belonged at the beach in Yalta.
Officially, this building had no name. It didn’t exist. Unofficially, and to almost every Muscovite who passed it, it was the Kremlin Polyclinic, where the nation’s “special” people went for medical care. Rostnikov crossed the street slowly, glanced at a man with a thick shiny leather briefcase who was reading the copy of Pravda posted on the corner bulletin board, and walked past the single car parked at the curb. It was a long, black four-door Zil, a monster of a car that needed only teeth. Only members of the Politburo were issued Zils. It was estimated that no more than fifteen of the custom automobiles were made each year.
Rostnikov glanced at the car and at the man behind the wheel in the front seat, a young man in a dark suit and a firmly knotted tie, a young man who looked as if his nose had been smashed with a hammer. The young man glanced at Rostnikov and then looked resolutely out the car’s front window.
Rostnikov entered the building and found himself facing a pair of burly men in identical blue suits. Both men were in their forties and had close-cropped hair. Beyond them in the small lobby was a desk at which a man and a woman sat. The man was talking quietly on the phone. The woman was looking over her glasses and appeared to be copying something. Only their heads were visible over the level of the desk. Rostnikov imagined for an instant that both of them had been beheaded and were on display at the Polyclinic to prove how capable and experimental the staff was. Perhaps, he thought, the two heads will even sing a folk song in unison. The image brought a small smile to Rostnikov’s face, which, in turn, brought a look of suspicion to the face of the slightly older of the two burly men, who stepped in Rostnikov’s path.
“You have business here, Comrade?” the burly man asked.
Rostnikov gauged the two. Certainly KGB. Both were younger, bigger, more agile than Rostnikov, and both, as evidenced by their slightly bulky jackets, had weapons—hidden but handy. Still, Rostnikov was sure that if they attempted to throw him out, he would probably have little trouble getting past them. It was only whimsy, however, for Porfiry Petrovich had no real urge to force his way past the KGB. He didn’t even want to be here. Rostnikov reached into his pocket and handed the older of the two men the note Snitkonoy had given him less than an hour earlier. The KGB man ran his right palm over the top of his bristly hair before taking the offering. Rostnikov and the second man looked at each other silently while the first man read the note quickly.
“This way,” the reader said, handing the note back to Rostnikov and turning toward the desk. Rostnikov followed him slowly, sandwiched between him and the other burly man. Rostnikov had followed the KGB before. His leg didn’t permit him to keep up the pace of these younger men eager to show that everything was urgent. Rostnikov was in no hurry. He had nowhere he wanted to go other than the circus and home. So he walked slowly past the desk where the decapitated head of the woman whose hair was tied back in a bun looked up at him over her glasses.
The parade of three went through a darkly stained wooden door and into an elevator that stood open. They entered silently and faced front, and the younger man pressed a button that closed the doors. He then pressed a button for the third floor and they rode up smoothly. At three, the elevator stopped with a small bounce, the doors opened, and the older KGB officer stepped out. Rostnikov followed, with the younger man behind him.
To the right was a corridor with closed doors. At the far end of the corridor was a desk behind which stood a pair of men clad in white. Talking, they paid no attention to the three men who moved about twenty feet down the corridor and went through a door.
Rostnikov found himself on an outdoor, wooden-floored patio. There were a series of chairs and a scattering of white metal tables on the long patio, as if someone had thrown a party and neglected to take the last step of putting back the furniture.
In one of the chairs, under a canopy, sat a very old man in a dark robe. He was the only one on the patio, and he seemed to be asleep, his eyes closed, as the three men approached.
“Comrade,” the older KGB man said softly as they stood in front of the dozing old man. The old man didn’t answer.
“Comrade,” the older KGB man repeated, perhaps a little uncertain if he should pursue this or simply wait.
“Yes,” said the old man, his eyes still closed.
“The man you sent for has arrived,” said the KGB man, looking at his partner for some kind of support.
The old man opened his eyes, blinked a
t the sun, ran his heavily veined hands through his crop of billowy white hair, and sat up. He was small, his face deeply lined, with little broken blood vessels under the eyes that might indicate vodka or age, or both. He didn’t look up, but groped in the pocket of his robe for his glasses, found them, placed them on his nose, and looked at the polished wooden floor, shaking his head once. Only then did he look up at Rostnikov. Rostnikov met his eyes and showed nothing.
“You two,” the old man said. “Get back downstairs.”
The KGB men nodded, turned, and departed.
When they had left, the old man, still sitting, bit his thin lower lip gently and watched Rostnikov, who stood solidly, resisting the urge to rock.
“You may sit, Inspector,” said the old man.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Rostnikov answered and made his way to a chair, turning it to face the old man. They were perhaps ten feet apart and Rostnikov felt decidedly uneasy. Rostnikov had dealt with this old man before, had sparred with him, tried to trick him, had blackmailed him, and had earned his enmity. That Colonel Drozhkin had offered him a seat was a very bad sign. Drozhkin normally preferred to have Rostnikov stand on the leg the colonel knew would ache painfully after four or five minutes.
“You are getting along in your new duties, Inspector?” Drozhkin asked, this time looking away to show that the question was not a sincere or meaningful one, that Rostnikov would have to play, appear uncurious, till Drozhkin was willing to get to the point, a point he would probably not come to directly.
“I am doing my best,” Rostnikov said.
“But,” said Drozhkin with a falsely sympathetic smile, “it is a bit less … responsible than your former duties, and Colonel Snitkonoy has methods that are”—he held up his withered hands in a gesture of resignation—“you know what I mean.”
“I believe I do, Comrade Colonel,” said Rostnikov. “But I find Colonel Snitkonoy an inspiration, and my duties, no matter how inconsequential they appear, to be a meaningful part of the state’s efforts to bring an end to all criminal activity.”
The old man shrugged his shoulders as if a cold wind had cut through him.
“Not many months ago your desire to aid in preserving the ideals of our nation were less compelling than your desire to seek your fortune in a Western country, a decadent country,” said Drozhkin. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you, Comrade,” Rostnikov said. “I am convinced that my interest in departing was a brief incapacitation brought on by a heavy work schedule.”
The two men sat silently for a moment, having restated the stalemate they had lived under for almost a year. Rostnikov had thought he had sufficient evidence of a KGB conspiracy to murder dissidents, a conspiracy that would have embarrassed the government at a time when the official policy was one of overt reconciliation, of placating the non-Soviet-aligned nations. Rostnikov had managed to get his evidence out of the country with a German tourist. He had approached Drozhkin with the suggestion that he, Rostnikov, his Jewish wife, Sarah, and their son, Josef, be allowed to emigrate under the Jewish quota.
Rostnikov had underestimated the KGB’s resolve and possibly the value of his own information, especially after two premiers had died and the possibility existed that Gorbachev could simply accept the truth of the charges and blame them on Andropov or even Brezhnev. The result had been a stalemate. Rostnikov could live. His wife could work. His son could remain in the army without fear of “special” treatment. And Rostnikov could go on working under close supervision. It was the best that either side could do, and Rostnikov was confident that the KGB had agents in Western Europe trying to find the evidence he had smuggled out. If they ever found it …
“Life is complicated,” Drozhkin said, as if reading Rostnikov’s thoughts.
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov. “We must learn to accept and live with complication.”
“Live with it carefully,” Drozhkin corrected.
“Very carefully,” Rostnikov said.
Drozhkin smiled, but it was a smile Rostnikov didn’t like.
“I’m dying,” Drozhkin said, his dark eyes fixed on Rostnikov’s face. Rostnikov had been expecting something and showed no reaction. He was certain that this was not the news Drozhkin had brought him to hear. He and the KGB colonel were far from friends. This was a distraction to set him up, weaken him, throw him off balance before he learned the real reason for the summoning. However, Rostnikov had no doubt that the colonel’s announcement of his coming death was true.
“I’m sorry to hear this, Comrade,” Rostnikov said flatly.
“You should be,” said the old man. “My protective interest in you will be turned over to my assistant, Major Zhenya. You remember Major Zhenya?”
“I remember Major Zhenya,” Rostnikov acknowledged.
Zhenya was not one to forget. Rostnikov called up the image of the tall, lean, straight-backed man who had led him to Drozhkin’s office the few times Rostnikov had been summoned to Lubyanka. Zhenya had taken pleasure in staying far enough in front of Rostnikov to make the inspector limp in embarrassment after him. Only Rostnikov had not hurried to keep up with him the second time this happened. Rostnikov had instead slowed down, knowing that Zhenya would not risk failing to deliver the visitor to the quite crotchety old colonel. Zhenya did not like Rostnikov. There may have been a reason, but Rostnikov had no idea what it might be. It was not peculiar to the KGB to take a sudden and lifelong dislike to someone. It was common in the Soviet Union. It was, however, particularly dangerous to have a KGB man dislike you. The dying old colonel’s face remained placid, but Rostnikov was sure he had enjoyed passing on the information about Zhenya.
They sat quietly for a moment or two, and then the door beyond the canopy behind Rostnikov opened and a young man with rimless glasses stepped out. He was wearing white and carrying a tray on which rested a steaming pot and two white cups. The man put the tray down on the table and poured a cup of tea.
“Perhaps the sun and air have changed your mind?” asked Drozhkin.
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov. “A cup of tea would be refreshing.”
The young man poured a second cup of tea and handed it to the inspector. The two men sat in silence under the sun and sipped tea till the young man in white left.
“Would you like to know what I am dying of?” Drozhkin said, making a slightly sour face and putting down his tea.
Rostnikov didn’t answer. He sipped his tea.
“I am dying of many things, impending mandatory retirement is the most vivid to me, but to the doctors it is a cancer that has decided to inhabit the organs of my body. If a cancer could be given intellect, one might reason with it, suggest to it that it live a careful, parasitic existence so it would not destroy its host, but cancers are self-destructive. I am almost seventy-four, not a very old man, but not a young one. I am not well educated, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, but I have managed to survive many changes in leadership, to retain my rank, and barring a disaster, to die with dignity for myself and my family.”
The point, Rostnikov was sure, was now being approached.
“You have had a long and distinguished career, Comrade Colonel, and I’m sure you have been an inspiration to your friends and family.”
“Your son has been posted to Afghanistan,” Drozhkin said, sipping the tea again and finding it no more acceptable.
This was it. Rostnikov wanted to get up, take the five paces across the roof, and hurl the withered old man over the edge of the roof to the street below. Instead he picked up the tea, willed his thick hands to be steady, and sipped. The tea was no longer hot, but he drank it all, knowing that Drozhkin’s eyes were on him.
“The decision was not mine,” Drozhkin said. “I suggested that he remain in Kiev, within the Soviet Union, but there are others above me. And considering recent events in Kiev, it may be that Afghanistan is not the worst place he could be.”
Still Rostnikov said nothing. Josef was his and Sarah’s only son. This threat had hun
g over them since Rostnikov had first run afoul of the KGB. Posting his son to the dangers of Afghanistan was a challenge, a test on which not only Josef’s but also his and Sarah’s lives were at stake. Rostnikov had one other piece of information about a KGB department head, a piece of information he knew he could never use. He also knew that he was now being tested to see if he were foolish enough to even hint that he might make use of such a secret. The KGB, through this dying old man, had raised the stakes, used Josef as the pawn, and Rostnikov had no choice but to back down.
“If my son is needed in Afghanistan, or any other place where the Soviet Union might be called, I am sure he will be honored to be chosen, as my wife and I will be honored to have him serve.”
It was Drozhkin’s turn to say nothing. He watched Rostnikov drink his tea, met his eyes. He saw neither fear nor hatred in the eyes of the burly inspector before him, but Drozhkin had survived by distrusting the evidence of his own eyes.
“That is all,” Drozhkin said. “I must rest now.”
Rostnikov put down his cup carefully, resisting the urge to drop it and apologize. He stood up quite slowly.
“I hope you feel better, Comrade,” he said to the old man, “and that the doctors make your final days as comfortable as you deserve.”
There was no derision in Rostnikov’s tone, nothing but apparent concern. Drozhkin knew better and approved. Some small token of rebellion or anger was necessary. Drozhkin would not accept complete capitulation by Rostnikov. Rostnikov, however, understood the same thing and had quickly calculated the level of affront and the delivery essential to create the proper impression. They were both experts at the game.
A Fine Red Rain Page 4
