Ironically, it was Jerold who had an instant of difficulty getting in and might not have made it if the line of deputies had not been a long one behind him.
"Are you unwell, Comrade?" a uniform guard had asked a dark-suited, beard-trimmed, and quite pale Jerold.
"American flu," said Jerold.
"Yes, I'm short two men today because of it," said the guard. "My aunt says to wrap garlic around your neck and eat a clove of it twice a day.'' "My mother says the same," said Jerold. "It can't hurt to try."
And with that Jerold had passed into the building. He did not join Yakov till they were on the second floor, up the stairs to the left. Even then they did not walk together. They acted as if they were busy assistants headed for bureaucratic tasks in preparation for the day's events. It wasn't till they went into the stairwell door at the end of the corridor and closed the door behind them that they faced each other and spoke.
"You don't look very well, Jerold," Yakov said. "Very pale."
And, Jerold thought, you may look well, Yakov, but you are the one who is dying.
May you not die too soon and may you not die too late.
"I will be fine," said Jerold, stepping past him and leading the way upward.
Yakov laughed and followed him.
"Can I take these glasses off now?" he asked.
Jerold nodded, and Yakov removed the glasses and put them in the pocket of his suit.
"I'm getting that American flu," Yakov said. "Stomach pains. Started yesterday.
Worse today. I need more pills."
"When we are finished," said Jerold.
"I need more pills," Yakov said emphatically.
"When we get to the room," Jerold agreed.
They went through a door on the fourth level. It was dark, but Jerold didn't hesitate. Because of his wound, he moved slowly, but Yakov could see that he knew where he was going, around a pile of dusty stacked chairs and to a narrow door in the corner. He opened it and entered, with Yakov right behind.
They climbed again, slowly, holding the dusty handrail of the steep, narrow stairway. And then Yakov heard a door open above him, and light came down the stairway shaft. He followed Jerold up through the door and closed it.
The room was not small, about the size of the apartment from which he had thrown Carla through the window. There were ancient wooden file cabinets, six of them, lined up in one corner. Three wooden chairs sat at random places, facing nothing in particular. On the wall was a faded mural depicting factory workers marching, according to the bright
lettering, to greater productivity for the Revolution. Leading the march was a woman with glasses.
"She looks like my mother," said Yakov, putting down his briefcase on one of the chairs and opening it to reveal the parts of his rifle.
Jerold had sat in one of the other chairs. He looked back at the mural and thought the woman looked nothing like Yakov's mother, but he said, "Yes, quite a bit."
"Exactly like her," Yakov said.
"When you get the gun assembled, open the window," Jerold said.
"Pills," answered Yakov.
Timing now was everything. Jerold was greatly weakened by his wound. His loss of blood and the weakness, he knew, might be affecting his judgment, but there was no time to rest. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, removed the bottle, and took out two pills. He handed them to the waiting Yakov, who took them solemnly, gulping them down dry, and walked to the window.
"They are gathering already," he said.
"Try the window," said Jerold, putting the bottle away and enjoying the luxury of closing his eyes for an instant.
Yakov opened the window. It neither stuck nor made a sound. The window behaved perfectly, as Jerold knew it would.
"Look, Mother, top of the world," Yakov said with a chuckle.
Jerold was growing less confident of Yakov's behavior. He checked his watch.
Still two hours to go. He had pills of his own to take for the pain and to keep him alert, but he would wait till he absolutely needed them, for the pills tended to cloud his judgment.
Yakov moved back to continue assembling the compact rifle.
"By day after tomorrow I'll be in Las Vegas," said Yakov as he worked.
By tomorrow, thought Jerold, you will be dead, but he said, "The day after tomorrow."
"Get a faster plane," Yakov said, holding up the assembled weapon. "The CIA can get whatever it wants."
"I've told you. I'm not with the CIA," said Jerold.
"Of course not," said Yakov. "You're just a Soviet citizen with good connections. You know what I want to do in Las Vegas?"
"Yes," said Jerold.
Yakov moved to the window.
"Don't go to the window with the gun," Jerold warned. "Not yet."
"No," said Yakov. "I don't mean the girls with the feathers. I want them, yes.
The girls with the feathers. But I want to go to the top of that big hotel-casino in the pictures. I want to stand on top of it and look down at the lights in the night. I want to spread my arms and have them turn into wings so I can leap over the edge. Maybe I can do it with one of those hang gliders."
"Maybe," said Jerold.
"And I will meet Madonna," he said seriously, turning to the seated Jerold.
"You will meet Madonna," said Jerold.
"And she will be very grateful for what I have done," he said.
"Very grateful," said Jerold.
"You think I'm a fool, don't you?" asked Yakov.
"I know you are not a fool," said Jerold. "You would not have been chosen for this assignment if you were a fool."
"Your Lee Harvey Oswald was not a fool, either," said Yakov.' 'Will I be as famous in America as he is in the Soviet Union?"
"Yes," said Jerold, feeling quite weak but trying not to show it.
Yakov moved back to the window and looked down.
"Top of the world," he said.
TWELVE
Considering his rank and the visibility of his public office, the Gray Wolfhound lived in a very modest two-story house off the Outer Ring Road, twenty minutes by car and driver from his office in Petrovka. It would have taken little more than a word or a hint to have someone ousted from a large apartment in the city, but the Wolfhound wanted none of it.
Colonel Snitkonoy enjoyed entertaining visiting dignitaries in his home, liked to show the almost Spartan nature of his existence to foreigners. The colonel harbored a dream, which he shared on occasion with the two members of his household, a dream of this modest house being turned into a small birthplace museum.
The two members of the colonel's household with whom this dream was shared were his retired adjutant, a quiet, devoted, and very stupid man named Golovin, who firmly believed that the colonel was the most brilliant military officer in the long history of all the Russias, and a housekeeper, Lena, who was not in the least bit stupid and was quite sure that when the colonel moved or died the house would be leveled and replaced with a massive apartment building or offices.
Each morning, seven days each week, except when he had an early-morning engagement or had to catch a flight out of Moscow, a car and driver would be parked and waiting at five-thirty in front of the modest house. The car that waited was also modest, a Zhiguli of recent vintage, not one of the large Volgas or even a foreign car, which he could afford and to which both Golovin and Lena said he was entitled.
This morning, Colonel Snitkonoy was slightly annoyed. He would be attending the ceremony in Soviet Square, and it was especially important that his dress uniform be spotless, his ribbons even, his hat without crease or blemish. He had drunk his morning coffee with care, eaten his English toast with caution, finished his glass of Turkish orange juice with dignity, and discovered a speck of something oily on his knee with concealed horror.
This speck had forced the Wolfhound to completely change his uniform and to be ten minutes late going through the front door, where Golovin on cloudy mornings like this stood ready with an umbrella t
o walk with the colonel to the waiting car, should the threatening rain start.
But this proved to be a morning like no other morning. Golovin stood inside the door with the umbrella, but he did not open either door or umbrella. Instead, he said, "You have a visitor."
The Wolfhound stopped, waited.
"He said it was urgent. Inspector Rostnikov. I put him in your office. I asked him not to touch anything. I hope that was acceptable. He said-"
"Tell the driver I will be out shortly," said the Wolfhound, going to a door just off of the entranceway. When Golovin was out the front door, the colonel entered his office.
Rostnikov was seated in the large wooden chair across from the desk. His leg, the one he had injured as a boy in the war, was propped up on a wooden block the colonel kept before the chair as a footrest. The block had a history that the colonel enjoyed relating to his guests, but this was neither the time nor the guest. Rostnikov wore a jacket and no tie. He needed a shave and looked quite tired.
"Would you like a coffee, Porfiry Petrovich?" asked the colonel.
"That would be pleasant," said Rostnikov, and the colonel moved to the door, where he ordered the now-waiting Golovin to bring coffee.
The colonel turned back into the room in anticipation. Rostnikov had never come to his house before. He had never been invited to his house. Even when Rostnikov had brought him the information that resulted in the dismissal of a high-ranking KGB officer just a few months ago, the information and evidence had been brought to the colonel's office.
That information had resulted in Colonel Snitkonoy's being taken far more seriously than he had been before, which was both a good and a bad thing.
"You are supposed to be on vacation in Yalta, Inspector," the Gray Wolfhound said, moving to his desk. He leaned against the desk and folded his arms in front of him.
"Why was I sent on vacation, Colonel?"
Rostnikov asked the question gently, casually, and he would have liked to present it more carefully, in the natural context of a conversation, but there was no time.
' 'An order came to all departments indicating those senior officers who were overdue for vacation and who must take them immediately," said the colonel.
"And would you remember the names on the list?" asked Rostnikov. "I mean, remember them if you saw them."
"Yes," said the colonel. "I would remember all of those within the MVD and- Where is this leading, Inspector? I have an important ceremony to attend."
Rostnikov shifted his weight, reached into his pocket, came up with Vasilievich's notebook, and handed it to the Wolfhound as Golovin knocked at the door.
' 'Come in,'' called the colonel, looking down at the book. "Put it on the desk."
Golovin looked concerned but said nothing as he put down the tray containing two cups and a steaming pot. Golovin departed quickly, closing the door behind him.
"Page six," said Rostnikov. "May I help myself?"
"Please," said the Wolfhound, turning the pages of the notebook while Rostnikov reached over to pour himself coffee.
"These are the names, not all of them, but many of them,'' he said, looking away from the book at Rostnikov.
' 'Now look at pages nine through twelve,'' Rostnikov said, lifting the cup to his lips.
"Where did you get this notebook?"
"It belonged to a GRU inspector named Vasilievich. He was murdered in Yalta two days ago. The men who murdered him were hired by an American who was himself hired by a Soviet. The American returned to the United States yesterday before he could be properly detained."
"I see," said the colonel wisely, though he saw nothing at all, and then on the tenth page he saw more names, names that he recognized, including that of both Gorbachev and Yeltsin, but the one that caught the colonel's eye immediately was his own name. He looked away from the notebook again at Rostnikov, who put his coffee cup down on the tray.
' 'Vasilievich was convinced that a conspiracy existed, a conspiracy engineered among high-ranking officers in the police and intelligence services," said Rostnikov. "The conspiracy required removing from Moscow and other key cities the senior investigators who might possibly uncover the conspiracy."
"Assassination," said the colonel, tapping the book against his thigh.
' That is what Vasilievich believed.''
"And what you believe?"
"Yes," said Rostnikov.
"I am on this list," said the colonel.
Rostnikov said nothing.
The colonel nodded his head knowingly, placed the notebook down carefully, and reached for one of the cups of coffee. Conflicting feelings surged through the Wolfhound, not the least of which was a certain pride at being considered important enough to be included on the list of people who might be worth assassinating. Fear was not one of the feelings, for, in truth, Colonel Snitkonoy was a very brave man.
"What do you propose, Inspector?"
"I have reason to believe that the assassination in Moscow is to be carried out by a young man named Yakov Krivonos, the man I was in the process of locating when I was sent on vacation."
"And the man Inspector Karpo continued to search for until I ordered him on vacation," continued the colonel. "A vacation ordered by directive."
"Inspectors Karpo and Tkach are in pursuit of Krivonos and a man named Jerold, who may be behind the planned attempt," said Rostnikov. "May I have more coffee?"
"Help yourself," said the colonel.
"Inspector Karpo has until tonight at midnight, according to your order, before he must go on vacation," said Rostnikov.
"If we can reach Inspector Karpo, inform him that the order is no longer in effect," said the colonel. "You have a suggestion, Inspector?"
"One that may be dangerous, Colonel."
"Proceed."
"A call from you to the appropriate heads of departments in the KGB, MVD, and GRU indicating that you have evidence of such an assassination plot and advising them to be alert. You might also tell them about the notebook and suggest that copies have been made and are safe."
"One or more of the people I contact may well be part of the conspiracy, Porfiry Petrovich."
"Let us hope so, Colonel. Let us hope they realize that they must stop the assassination attempts or risk exposure. If nothing happens, then Vasilievich's notebook is the conjecture of an old man who coincidentally was murdered. If even one assassination takes place, the conspirators will be pursued. They had hoped, perhaps, to make it look like the work of a group of young drug dealers and criminals acting from a grievance against the state. We must disabuse them of the possibility of such a public interpretation.''
' 'I will make the calls immediately. I can also attempt to have the celebration in Soviet Square postponed."
"There is less than an hour," said Rostnikov, rising from his chair. "Will they listen?"
"No," said the Wolfhound. "They will not. And if I am not on the stand with the other officials and an assassination attempt does take place, I will be an immediate suspect. I must make these calls quickly, Inspector, and I must do them in plenty of time to get to Soviet Square."
It was not the first time that Rostnikov had felt a sincere admiration for the colonel, and he hoped it would not be the last.
"We must hope that Inspectors Karpo and Tkach locate the assassin," the Wolfhound said, reaching for the phone.
As he leaned forward, his leg brushed his waiting cup of coffee. A splash of dark brown hit his immaculately clean trousers. The colonel paid no attention.
Gorky Street was cordoned off for the celebration. Even if Karpo and Tkach had identified themselves as policemen, they could have gotten no closer because of the crowds. Karpo pulled to the curb in front of the Moscow News Office and across from Pushkin Square. They got out and battled through the crowds onto Gorky Street, making their way past the All-Russia Theatrical Society, the Nikolai Ostrovsky Museum, and Food Store Number One. In front of the Tsentralnaya Hotel they crossed the street to the sidewalk before the Druzhba
Bookshop.
Yakov's mother had told them where to find her son, and Karpo had considered several possibilities. One possibility was to call Petrovka, to tell the duty officer to get to the Moscow Soviet, but there would be a great risk in that.
That there was a conspiracy was evident from even his cryptic conversations with Inspector Rostnikov over the last two days. There was no telling who would receive his call or how it might be treated.
No, there had been ample time for him and Tkach to get to Gorky Street, and though it had taken longer than they anticipated, they were here now, making their way through the crowds. Tkach was markedly improved but not to be fully trusted. Had he an alternative, Karpo would have sent Tkach back to Petrovka, but there was no time for alternatives.
Tkach looked across the broad street at the raised platform on which minor officials were already gathering in spite of the thunder and almost certain rain. The threat of rain had not deterred the crowd, which hoped the occasion would be one of protests and spectacle.
Karpo led the way into the building and to the guards.
"Two men," he said, showing his identification card, though both of the guards had recognized him. "One young, wearing glasses, the other about my age, bearded, probably quite pale."
The guard had no idea what Karpo's age might be, but he shook his head and said,
"Hundreds of people have come in and out this morning, all of them with proper identification.''
The second guard, however, said,' 'The one with the flu."
"Yes, perhaps," said the first guard. "He had a beard, but-"
"Where is he?" asked Karpo.
Both guards shrugged.
"I think," said the second guard, "he went up those steps."
Karpo and Tkach hurried past the guards and moved up the stairs two or three at a time.
It took them almost a minute to make their way to the fourth floor, past officials in the halls hurrying for raincoats and umbrellas in their offices or scurrying down the stairs to be outside, where they could be seen when the celebration speeches began. It took them another few minutes to find the door on the fourth floor with the stairway behind it. They entered and in the darkness moved up slowly, cautiously, Karpo in the lead, weapons drawn.
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