A Whisper to the Living (Inspector Rostnikov Mysteries)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “You will be safe here,” said Klaus.

  “I should be in Moscow finding out who killed Lena,” said Ivan. “I should be finding him and beating him to death.”

  “No, you should be here waiting to hear from me,” said Klaus as they walked up a muddy road. “I will keep the police away and try to find what I can about who killed Lena and Fedot.”

  “I do not care about Fedot. He and Lena were … I do not care who killed Fedot.”

  “But,” said Klaus, stepping off the path with Ivan towering over him at his side, “it is the same person.”

  “Maybe,” said Ivan.

  It was then that they saw the near naked man with the large belly at the side of the green-water pool. The man kept talking on the phone and eating his cucumber as he looked up and acknowledged the arrival of the two visitors with a nod.

  When they were close enough, Ivan could hear the man say into the phone, “Yes, the Archbishop will be joining us. The church will be ready.”

  The man looked beyond the pool and down a small, low valley where workmen were removing lumber from a large pickup truck. A few feet from the truck a small building, clearly a church, was somewhere near completion.

  “It will be perfectly safe to bring our friends in the Duma. I have to go now. Visitors.”

  The near naked man put the phone down, placed the cucumber in his mouth, and held out his hand to greet Klaus and Ivan.

  “Good to meet you,” the man mumbled around his cucumber.

  His grip was firm, not as firm as Ivan’s but definitely among the stronger and more confident that Ivan had encountered.

  “Artyom will take care of you. We are old friends,” said Klaus, reaching up to place a hand on Ivan’s shoulder.

  “You will be safe here,” Artyom Gorodeyov said, hitching his towel up a little higher. “Our people have already been informed that they are not to notice you. Do you know anything about us?”

  Gorodeyov motioned for the two visitors to follow him up four wooden stairs to a deck of the one-story house they approached.

  Ivan knew a little about the Union of the Return and a little about Artyom Gorodeyov, and what he knew from the newspapers and television was not flattering.

  “No,” said Ivan.

  “We were founded twenty years ago by seven former military officers, some of whom are now in important positions in the government. We are dedicated to returning to the time when Russia was respected throughout the world, a return to the order brought by Stalin, a return to the religion of our past. An expulsion of the Jews, who have been responsible for our failures since 1917. We are a peaceful fellowship of diverse but like-minded people determined to exert our political power and raise a new generation of the young who will have direction and principles.”

  There had been nothing in the diatribe that Ivan had not heard before. He barely listened to the man, who spoke without expression or enthusiasm.

  “We have eight girls and eleven boys here,” he went on. The visitors were led into an office so small that there was barely room for a simple wooden desk and three chairs.

  Gorodeyov took his time settling himself in behind his desk.

  “No one is forced to remain here,” he said. “If they want to go, even the boys and girls, they simply say so. We call parents or relatives to pick them up. Adults can just pack up and leave after telling someone else that they no longer wish to stay. Very few, I tell you, leave us.”

  “I must get back to Moscow,” Klaus said, rising. “How much … ?”

  “There is no charge for staying here. If you wish to make a donation because you believe in our cause, you may do so. Please take some of our literature from the table in the front hall. You are sure you do not wish to stay for dinner? We live off of food we grow and produce ourselves. Nothing in all of Russia is fresher.”

  “I must go,” said Klaus, holding out his hand.

  Artyom Gorodeyov took it and Ivan said, “I am going back with you.”

  “Why? So that you can be arrested for murder?” asked Klaus. “You will be recognized the moment you step out in public.”

  “Everyone here is happy,” said Artyom, whose face conveyed no sense of happiness. “You are free to talk to anyone here about what they think and what they are doing. There is only one rule: obey. If you stay, obey.”

  “All right,” said Ivan. “For a few days.”

  Then Klaus was gone and Ivan was alone with Gorodeyov.

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes,” said Ivan.

  “Good. We will have some soup made from our own vegetables and you will talk to me about the murder of your wife and …”

  “Fedot Babinski,” said Ivan. “His name was Fedot Babinski.”

  The Volga Supermarket II was busy. It was early evening and people on their way home from work added to the people who did not go to work but prepared the evening meal for their families.

  The aisles of the supermarket were wide, the shelves no more than shoulder high, so that all items could be reasonably in reach, the lights high above were brightly fluorescent, and constant chatter was indistinguishable.

  Aleksandr Chenko, in a clean apron in spite of the lateness of the day and the frequent contact with meats, fruits, and vegetables, was rearranging a freestanding display of canned soups. The number of cans had slowly dwindled and the display had to be restocked and restacked.

  He was lost in his work, a can in his hand, when he had a feeling that he was being watched. He turned his head and saw the policeman from the park standing in the canned fruit and vegetable aisle. There was a small package under the policeman’s arm and a look of sadness on his face.

  Aleksandr went back to doing his work, stacking, building, perfecting. When he had taken all of the cans of chicken soup from the cart and was satisfied with the display he had created, he turned to Rostnikov with a smile.

  “What do you think?” asked Chenko as a short, fat woman with a scarf tied tightly around her red face reached up and took down a soup can to take a critical look.

  “About what?” asked Rostnikov.

  “The display.”

  “Very neat,” said Rostnikov. “Are you always so neat?”

  “I try to be,” Chenko said as the short, fat woman reached up to place the can she examined back on the stack.

  Chenko took the can down and carefully replaced it.

  “You cannot do that every time someone looks at a can or buys one.”

  “No, but I can try to stay one step ahead of them.”

  “Them?” asked Rostnikov.

  “The customers. You do not usually shop here.”

  “I do not.”

  Rostnikov shifted his packet to underneath his other arm.

  “Is there something with which I can assist you?” asked Chenko.

  “Yes, you can tell me why you do it.”

  “It?” asked Chenko.

  “Why you take the path through the park when it is neither on the way to or from this store from your apartment. It would be far more direct and much faster to walk along the outside walk.”

  Emil Karpo had supplied Rostnikov with the address of Aleksandr Chenko.

  A man with thick glasses squinted painfully at a shopping list as he pushed his cart between Chenko and the policeman. The man wore a heavy blue denim jacket with an insulated lining.

  “I like to walk different ways. You have taken an interest in me,” Chenko said.

  “You are a person of interest.”

  Aleksandr Chenko began pushing his now-empty cart toward the back of the store.

  “Why?”

  “You are an interesting person,” said Rostnikov, keeping up with him.

  “Me, interesting? No one ever thought I was before.”

  “Do you like guava juice?”

  “What? You ask some very odd questions for a policeman.”

  “I have been told I am a very odd policeman.”

  “I drink all kinds of juice.”

 
; “Including guava?”

  “Including guava. Has it become a crime to drink guava juice?” Chenko asked.

  Rostnikov shrugged his shoulders and stopped trying to keep up with him. The policeman stopped and watched Chenko hurry away.

  He told himself to resist, not to turn and look at the policeman. There would be nothing guilty in his doing so, but nonetheless … This policeman was playing a role. He probably dealt with the guilty and the innocent in the same way, trying to make them think that he knew something when, in fact, he knew nothing. He had probably harassed several other “persons of interest” today before coming to the Volga.

  Chenko turned his head and almost ran the cart into a stylishly dressed young woman pushing a small cart. The policeman was no longer behind him.

  “Watch where you are going,” shouted the woman he had almost hit.

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  “You could have killed me,” she said loudly.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated, moving on.

  This policeman, this Chief Inspector Rostnikov, would be back. He probably had a checklist of people he went to trying to intimidate. The list must constantly expand. What did he expect? A mistake? A confession? That would not happen. It would not.

  Guava juice? he thought. What was this business about guava juice?

  It then struck Aleksandr Chenko that the policeman might be a little bit crazy.

  Rostnikov sat on a bench at the edge of Bitsevsky Park looking across the street at a trio of six-story concrete apartment buildings of no distinction.

  A wind was whispering through the trees behind him, and the clouds were gray and listless, moving quickly to the east.

  The boy put down his school book bag and sat next to him without speaking. “What are you looking at?” asked Yuri Platkov.

  Rostnikov pointed with a gloved hand to the center building.

  “What is in there?” asked the boy.

  “Someone I know lives there.”

  “The Maniac?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What will sitting here accomplish?” asked Yuri.

  He was beginning to doubt whether the crate-shaped man at his side was indeed a policeman and not just another of the crazy people who had nothing to do but hang around the park and create worlds and realities where none existed. Yuri’s father had warned him of such people, but Yuri, who planned to be a writer of fiction when he grew up, was fascinated.

  “So far, my sitting on park benches has resulted in my meeting you and the person who lives over there. You told me about the bird feeders that had been moved.”

  “And that was helpful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I think I will write a story about you,” said the boy, pulling his hat down lower over his ears.

  “I should like to read it when it is finished.”

  Rostnikov rose slowly, making sure his ersatz left leg was firmly under him.

  “You are leaving?”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov.

  “Then I shall also,” the boy said, rising and slipping the bag of books over his shoulder. “You will be here tomorrow?”

  “I will be somewhere tomorrow,” said Rostnikov.

  “That is not an answer. Everyone is always somewhere.”

  “I have known many people when they were nowhere.”

  Yuri nodded, not certain whether the somber-looking man who said he was a policeman was saying something very deep or something rather stupid.

  “You should go home, Yuri Platkov.”

  Yuri shook his head in a slight acknowledgment of affirmation.

  “And you?”

  “I should cross the street.”

  He called himself Tyrone. His real name was Sergei Bresnechov. He hated his real name. He hated almost everyone in addition to himself. He tolerated a few people, including his own mother, and he felt more than mild affection for the policewoman Elena Timofeyeva because she had let him go after six hours alone in a cell. She had not charged him. Besides that, she was pretty and just ample enough to meet his fantasies.

  Tyrone was at best a gawky seventeen-year-old. He was somewhat pigeon chested, extremely skinny, with a frenzy of wild dark hair and a large nose on top of which was poised a pair of glasses. He wore an extremely rumpled T-shirt on the front of which was a faded photographic imprint of Gene Simmons with his tongue sticking out. Tyrone had promised the pretty policewoman with the large breasts that he would no longer hack into the files of the National Socialist Party. They had complained. They had threatened. Tyrone was a Jew. The National Socialist Party was a Hitler-loving hodgepodge of skinheads, would-be Nazis, and zombies. Tyrone’s mission had been pure sabotage. Quite illegal. He was fortunate that his case had made its way to the desk of Elena Timofeyeva, whose distaste for the National Socialist Party was admittedly stronger than her commitment to the law. The law, she had learned in her five years as a police officer, was often quite clearly wrong. She felt little guilt in circumventing a bad law. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov served as a model for her behavior. He had once told her, “If you break the law, do so with the understanding that you believe you have done what is right and are willing to accept the consequences should you be caught.”

  Tyrone did not stop hacking into the National Socialist Party’s computers. He just did so with far greater caution and discretion.

  Now he sat hunched over some piece of electronic gear on the table in the small living room. The table housed two computers, all manner of electronic equipment, and a plate bearing a large sausage and lettuce sandwich. The few pieces of family furniture in the room had been exiled to a nook in the corner of the room, a nook in which all furniture faced a large television set.

  “Yes, I can,” Tyrone said, picking up his sandwich and taking a great bite. “I will need time.”

  “How much time?” asked Iris over his shoulder.

  “Yes, how much time?” asked Sasha.

  “A day, maybe two. I have to barter with an acquaintance for an oscilloscope.”

  “We need it soon,” said Elena, standing at the end of the table with the filtered light through a window behind her.

  Tyrone chewed and looked up at her, squinting.

  Elena did not seem to notice that the boy was clearly infatuated with her. Sasha noticed.

  “Tonight,” Tyrone said, still chewing. “Call or come back at nine.”

  “Tell no one about this,” Elena said.

  “I will not,” he said, watching her. “My mother is spending the next two days at the dacha of the man who likes to be thought of as my uncle and not my mother’s boyfriend. It is not really a dacha. It is a shack surrounded by a forest of weeds.”

  “Nine, Tyrone,” Elena said. “We are counting on you. This is very important.”

  She touched his shoulder and smiled, at which point Tyrone would gladly have hacked into the files of the CIA and the Kremlin offices.

  “He does not know you are getting married,” Sasha said when they were back outside.

  “Why would he care?” asked Elena.

  “You underestimate your power to charm,” said Iris. “He did not even look at me.”

  Sasha, who had been looking at Iris, averted his eyes.

  “We will take you somewhere safe with Svetlana,” Elena said, quickly changing the subject.

  “Is there somewhere safe in Moscow?” said Iris.

  “Petrovka,” said Elena.

  “The central office of the police? You think that is safe from Pavel Petrov?” asked Iris.

  “Yes,” Elena lied.

  “I will stay with you,” said Sasha.

  “Is there a bed?” asked Iris, looking at Sasha.

  “A cot,” said Elena.

  It was clear to Elena that the British woman was trying to make Sasha uncomfortable. And she was succeeding. Elena had no objection to this. Sasha had spent the night in this woman’s bed. He deserved to be uncomfortable. It was a small enough consequence for having been c
aught.

  A cell phone rang. All three of them started to reach into pocket or briefcase.

  “Mine,” said Elena, taking her phone from her pocket.

  The misty gray rain had begun again. While Elena talked, all three moved to the car and got in. When they were inside, Sasha behind the wheel, Elena in the rear with Iris, Elena continued her conversation, asking, “Where? … When? … How bad?” She paused after each query to listen to the answer. Then she said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  “Olga Grinkova has been attacked. She is in the hospital. If we hurry, she may still be alive when we get there.”

  8

  The Ghost of Tarasov’s Wife

  Ivan Medivkin decided to leave the compound of the Union of the Return less than five hours after he had arrived.

  He had eaten with Artyom Gorodeyov, whom the men, women, and children in the compound obeyed without question, happy to get a nod of approval or a new task from Gorodeyov.

  This baffled Ivan, who saw not a benevolent father figure but a dour, ill-dressed, and sloppy man of neither wit, wisdom, nor charisma. Ivan wondered why Klaus Agrinkov had brought him here.

  “I have decided to go,” he announced to Gorodeyov as they took a walk down a muddy road outside the compound walls.

  “There is no place safe for you but with us.”

  “I should be in Moscow looking for a murderer.”

  “It is not a good idea.”

  “Do you plan to try to stop me?”

  Gorodeyov, a sprig of radishes in hand on which he had been munching, stopped and looked up at the giant beside him.

  “It would be very difficult to stop you. But it would be a great risk for us to help you go back.”

  “All I need is a vehicle to borrow.”

  “In the barn, there is a backup truck. It is not in the best of condition. You may take it. You disappoint me, Ivan Medivkin. You have failed to allow yourself to remain and thus learn that you can be a great tool in getting all of Russia to know that there is a force rising throughout the land, a force to return our nation to glory and respect.”